Basheer wiped out the beads of sweat over his forehead as he waited for the bus to leave the stand. The supporting nuts had come off from backrest of the seat in front of him so every time he moved his legs, he'd get a dirty glare from the woman in front. This seat hadn't been worth the pushing and shoving but then this was the only bus headed out at this unearthly hour. He soon dozed off against the grills on the window but not for long as he was woken up by the conductor,"Aakhri manzil wale bhaiya, 35 rupees." Basheer searched around for 5 coins and pushed the soiled notes along with the coins. He looked out to see the familiar void outside just like in his life. Quite a moniker he had earned himself at the bus stand. He wasnt surprised. Ever since he had moved into the city for a job, the concrete world of dreams had come crashing on him. While he did land up a job with Tejpreet, his village neighbour's second cousin, the pay was too meagre to get him a decent place and have savings to send home. Even sleeping on the street was an expensive affair with local goons extracting rent from the homeless. Once while travelling to a nearby town for goods delivery, he came across the biggest plus of overnight travel. Forgiving the few odd bumps and lurches, his sleep was pretty much undisturbed. That day onwards, he would catch whichever bus was standing at the station, and ask a ticket for the last stop. The weekday bus to Solarpur around ten in the night was his favourite as very few people got on and he was allowed to stretch his legs. Also the conductor Ram Singh was a delight despite his old age and the unearthly hour. His tales of the freedom struggle made Basheer wish he had been born half a century ago. The irony pinched him - Indians were more united against all differences before 1947 than after 60 years of freedom where trivial issues under the mask of politics had been exaggerated. He had always wanted to join the army and bring back the pride of the Khan family which lay misplaced after they were displaced post independent India. The bus lurched to a halt as people got off to take a leak , stretch their legs and catch a cup of tea. Basheer stretched his legs across the seat for the few minutes that he could.
Jaffrey came back to the house with one box of barfis (sweets) in his hand. "Who did you leave out?", asked Tejpreet, owner of Lucky stores, a 8 foot by 7 foot shop specialising in ladies churidars in central market area. "Bunty's. You'll have to give it when he comes to the shop next Monday. Noone knows where he stays." No one indeed knew where Tejpreet's seniormost salesman lived in the city. He was always the first one to the shop; way before the cleaners had swept by the streets and closed the shop when the homeless dozed off on their cardboard beds on the spacious pavements. Bunty had never taken a leave in the entire 2 years he had worked at Mr. Tejpreets place nor had he ever talked about his family, let alone crib about them. "Oh well! I ll give it to him when we open up after Diwali." Suddenly, a few shrieks later, Tejpreet and his family were in front of the TV as the headlines screamed "Terror Strikes! Bomb on Bus kills Ten"
