AN APHID

The glimmering display of your phone displays 20:30 hrs. Your line of sight falls on the foggy windowpane in the right. It is becoming hot inside. And, the wish to be hit by a rush of frosty air is growing more and more. “Could you turn on the A.C.?” you ask. While staring into the rearview mirror, the driver responds, “But sir, it’s already cold…” Raising decibels, you counter, “Just do as I say.” His eyes on the mirror slide away as he presses on the A.C. button.

The cab reaches the station gate. Fare: 250 bucks. Pay, step out of the car and pick up a heavy suitcase from the boot of the cab. A sling leather bag is on your shoulders and the suitcase in your right hand, as you make way into the bus station. The woman-in-charge at the ticket counter, hands over a ticket of the bus (S2-14) as you requested that it would enable to you reach quicker to the destination sought. Fifteen it is.

You step into the bus. Walking down the aisle, you trip over a trolley bag kept near a seat. “Mmmph….can’t you see my big trolley?” asks a woman who is eating oranges and is peering-at-you-over-the-glasses. Grey curls neighboured her puckered face–the folds shining like faux-gold in the dim tungsten lights. Your nose flares up and you hear a ringing sound in your head. Pick up the suitcase and head towards your place: Seat fifteen.

On seat sixteen, a bespectacled man is sitting, eyes locked in, on his laptop, and talking to someone over the phone. Put the suitcase on the luggage rack and sit with the sling bag on your lap.

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You look at your wristwatch. Five circles of the second(s) hand and the bus vibrates. It makes its way out of the station as you lean back on your spot–the tightly stuck headphones churn out a Blues track.

By now, three tracks have been played. At the end of the third, the bus arrives at a halt. The lit billboards describe it as Khanapara, a place three miles away from the station. It’s 21:00. Two more tracks have been played. 21:10 it is. Add to the list, another. 21:16 and now you get up, walk down the aisle and open the cabin door.

You inquire, “Why are you stopping for so long?”

The driver responds, “There are empty seats. We need to fill them.”

“What do you mean fill them? .....Does that mean we must wait till it’s full?”

The bus-conductor spits out gutkha on the road, rubs the saturated yam liquid running out of his mouth, on the sleeves of his purple uniform shirt. “Yes, even if it means staying the full night.”

Sweat comes out of your forehead. “How dare you think of stopping the bus?”

The driver rises from his place and grabs your collar. The stink of hooch from his breath is sufficient to cause anyone to puke, but not you. He declares, “It’s our bus. If you don’t want to stay, step out!”

The conductor walks up to you; his smell is a mix of the stinging gutkha and rotten teeth to its core. He pushes you. In response, you swing your good arm at him only to stop midway in the air. A high-pitched shriek stops you. You turn around to see a small girl crying. Turn your back to cuss words, while walking towards your spot. On the first row (right), a woman is patting the panicked kid, as she glares at you. This doesn’t put you off. You see Nisha consoling a frightened Mimi–your angry burst at Nisha scared her. All this fades away into thin air. You can hear whispers about your past, but only snores greet you when you turn your head at the mumbles.

The guy on the sixteenth is asleep. A video is playing on his laptop. It’s a video of a speech by the Chief Minister. Tap him on the shoulder. He wakes up with an Aahhh, plugs off his earphones, puts the laptop in his bag, and dozes off.

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Place your headphones back onto your ears. The bus hasn’t started yet. Your eyes land on the old lady to your left. She is still feasting on the oranges: she sucks out the juice from the slices, collects the some-juice-is-still-there slices on her right palm and when the palm is full, she slides them under her seat. The bus takes off at 20:35 hours, even though a few seats are still empty. Your breaths become shorter and sweat peeks out of your face.

The bus is turning in and out. The snake hill-road has arrived. You bring down the headphones and rest them on your shoulder, close your eyes, and take deep breaths to slow down your pulse. Else you’ll puke.

Your eyes open to a sudden brake. The inertia of motion compels your head to hit the back of the seat in front of you. Slangs directed towards the driver, arise from inside the bus. It is 23:20. A ten minutes in, and the bus pulls down to a stop. A guy from the back treads towards the cabin door in an irregular motion. He gets off the bus. A man comes inside. It’s not the same man. He holds the child in his arms and with a bag in his left, downs from the bus. After giving him the lightest bag, the woman in the front-row exits as well–bags in each of her hands. The person who exited the bus first climbs up back. His unsteady walk remains. He leans onto the seats as he walks past them. He leans in to kiss the cheeks of that elderly lady and the slobbery right-hand whacks the nuts out of him. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, though his eyes and palms face someone else. He finally reaches his seat by the inertia of rest.

Ten minutes in and the bus arrives at a halt once again. This time two men step in. One of them settles in the empty seat where the child sat. The other one comes to the grey-haired woman, picks up the big trolley. She grabs him with her dirty hand to get up from her seat and they walk towards the exit. The old woman is so slow that you don’t even get to see her exit as dreams grab hold of you thus, saving you from seeing that dreadful slow movement. Even the snail can give her a tight competition, only if she plays it fair and doesn’t break the shell with her foot.

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Someone is tapping on your shoulder. You open your eyes to a few people exiting. The bespectacled man in the black jacket is tapping. “Could you move aside, please? I need to freshen up.” You tilt your legs in a way that the man moves out, but you can’t escape from your face being stroked by his butt. It doesn’t bother you as you consider yourself lucky. It is 00:20. You rub the sweat off your forehead and let out a deep sigh. The rest have not exited. You pick up your sling back and exit the bus. Hotel Jamun: it is a roadside motel and a popular interval destination in bus rides on that route. Five buses line up next to each other, facing the motel. As you get down, a push throws you to the ground. Ten men round you up, two amongst them are the driver and the conductor you got into a spat with.

“What do you think of yourself?” asks the driver.

The conductor follows it up with, “You wanted to beat us, isn’t it? C’mon, show us what ya got.”

And he kicks straight in your face. You can knock them out, but you leave. But they don’t let you; one of them is pulling your sling bag and then comes a blow on the back. The strap breaks away, and the bag’s with them. Jump on that guy, bomb him on his face and take the bag even as the others try to grab a piece of your flesh. Run. Run. Hold that bag close to your chest and sprint along escaping the scene. You run as fast as you can, taking small intervals of heavy breathing. Escape. So keep on running. In the dark, a glimmer of light stood out. Is it that bus? You turn around to find a truck. Wave your hands violently. The truck stops near you.

“Can I get a lift till Guwahati?” you ask.

The door opens. A person peeks out. “What has happened to you? Where are you heading to in this ungodly hour?”

You repeat the question.

He replies, “We can give you a lift till Khanapara. Then we’ll head in a different direction.”

You climb inside. The driver looks at you and gives a bottle of water. Drink it. Not entirely, but half.

“What has happened?” the driver asks you while looking at your torn shirt.

You reply, “I got robbed, and they were trying to kill me.”

“You mustn’t be moving in these midnight hours. You should expect such things.”

You nod. The unlit road ahead has entwined with the lights. Not sure if it is clearing the path that lies ahead or, is it leading you into the grim world? And your eyes shut as you imagine what lies ahead.

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“Get up. Get up,” you hear. Open your eyes. It’s already dawn and you’ve reached Khanapara. Thank them and, get down. Walk. Walk to the auto-rickshaw stand. Ask one driver, “How much will it be to Kahilipara?” The man looks at you from top to bottom and responds, “300 bucks.” Enter the auto-rickshaw.

You stop the rickshaw on the main road. Pay him. And walk through the link road to your house. You enter your house and settle down on a chair. You’ve just arrived a few days earlier and plan to move to somewhere else in a day or two. Why? It’s because of the high rent. One man lives in a two-bedroom house. And the rent is fifteen thousand bucks. That’s too much. You draw out the dead phone from your pocket and put it on charging. Turn it on, 33 missed calls before it died. Twenty missed calls from Bhaiyya and the rest of your family members.

Call Bhaiyya. You let out a laugh. “So, the task is done…. yeah, how could he even thinking of standing against the supreme one?” you say, “Total is 149 rabbits. This is better than I expected.” You talk with Bhaiyya for over four minutes. After the call ends, you switch on the T.V. and settle down on the chair.

‘Bomb blast at Hotel Jamun at 12:50 a.m., 149 dead’

The news anchor reads out, “Prominent journalist Anirban Ray, who had been threatening to reveal some crucial information against the government, was killed last night in the bomb blast. The militant outfit BOLKA has claimed responsibility for the blast.”

You sheepishly smile at the photograph of Anirban on the T.V., the man in the sixteenth seat.

You stare at the T.V. when a ring seeks your attention. It is from Namit, your brother. Listen to what he says and cut off the call midway. Fall on the chair and stare innocuously on the T.V.

An hour sweeps by. Above the clattered glass of the T.V. on the ground, your lifeless body stares down at a neighbor who peeps in through one window. Your mortal body finally found peace in losing you.

Never did you know, when you placed the explosives-filled suitcase, that it’d take the lives of the ones you loved–Nisha & Mimi, who had been sitting on one of the five buses.