Das M.A, L.L.B

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Das M.A, L.L.B stepped on to the bus and took his usual seat. Marked reserved for senior citizens like him, 65 years and above. It was a pair of seats at the end of bus, just behind the rear wheels. He thought it illogical to seat old men at the bumpiest part of the bus. “Oh well, It really doesn't matter in the end”, he felt.

Over the years, people lost track of his full name. His qualifications gradually took on the role of his surname, and his surname stood now for his first. What was his first name? It took a second even for himself to fish it out of his foggy memory. He wished he too didn't end up losing it in course of time. He adjusted his heavy spectacles oiled with age over his ears and thought that even if he did forget, “Oh well, It really doesn't matter in the end”

The bus would leave this first stop exactly at 9:30 AM. Plus or minus ten minutes. And Das would be on it every alternate day. He alternately visited his only immediate family, his son and daughter, since his wife had departed and he had sold away his house soon after. He paid these visits more to spend time with his grand-children than to see his children. He loved his grand-kids and they too loved the bespectacled old man with white hair who wore only white. He carried chocolates for them every single day and so he held them in his sway. His son, however would drop him at his daughter's house the next day. Why to trouble his son in this manner he worried sometimes. “Oh well, It shouldn't matter in the end”, he felt.

On these bus days, he would quietly observe the stream of passing passengers. At any time, he would see people across all ages. Looking out of the window, he would see more people. Everyone has a place to be, a place to go to. Life is one long Journey. Life is Motion. Life has a final destination? Everyday you need to be somewhere. And there are days when you wish you weren't where you were. “Oh well, It doesn't really matter in the end”, he sighed.

Today he saw a child with his mother. The small boy wore his uniform of khaki shorts and blue checked half-shirt. He looked gloomy. His mother on the other hand showed evident displeasure. The boy didn't do well in his tests perhaps, Das thought. He laughed to himself. The boy's mother probably was thinking that she bore a failure. He vaguely remembered instances of his own son and wife in such situations. And he chortled a little bit more discreetly. He felt like telling the mother, “Oh don't worry, You'll see that in the end, it really doesn't matter”

Halfway through the trip, the bus was crowded and many were standing. Among them was a middle aged man, 40 perhaps, or 50. Das saw him holding on to his luggage and was finding it difficult to balance and stand. He was eyeing people who were sitting one-by-one. Das thought he was trying to evoke sympathy and get himself a seat to sit. Das saw uncertainty in the man. Das remembered his middle-age phase. You have to give up a lot on how you used to be. You have to prepare yourself for what eventually you'll end up to be. Like everything, this also will pass, Das felt like telling the man. “And in the end you'll see, that it really doesn't matter”

It was now the last stretch of the journey and a young man came and sat just in front of Das. He was wearing a strap bag on his shoulders and now he kept it on his lap. He looked smart, and Das thought he must be in college or probably he might even be working. And of all the people, Das had seen today, this young man looked the most sullen. He was staring out of the window and it seemed like he was trying to spot clouds, and then find the silver lining in them. He was lost in the deluge of the infinite blue sky. Das saw him tensely gripping a phone in his hand and every now and then, he would stop looking out and glance at his phone like he was expecting something to happen. Poor man was tormented and it could mean only one thing. Only one thing can put a man, in the prime of his youth through such torture. It had to be a woman. Maybe he is just missing her or maybe they had a fight and he is worried, Das thought. And Das knew quite well how it felt to be so. He remembered his courting days with his yet-to-be wife. He unexpectedly had to work temporarily in a different city far away from her. With passions flying between them, he remembered the only way to satiate them was through writing letters. But this meant the correspondence would often take 3 days and sometimes up to even 6. He remembered how he felt when her letters would arrive,

I Read this Letter of Letters,
Where the River of Ink courses through,
I follow along the Curves and their Loops,
Which Promise Me My Fiery Desire.

They Pull me towards in Spirals,
I Lose myself in their Sweet Speech,
And Blind myself in the Images that Reflect,
They Pour me with Life, Her Letters of Life.

Lost in these thoughts, he awoke in a jolt from them. His stop was now just a minute away. He felt like talking to the young man, “Oh young man, brighten up! The passions will pass, the torments will end, your love will be yours, and your's alone. And then you will see with time that, in the end, it all really doesn't ..”

Before Das could finish the sentence in his mind, he saw the young man suddenly sit up. He was glowing now. And the sun too had changed sides to cast rays upon him. Das was surprised and was at a loss to comprehend what had happened. He stared clueless at the young man, and as he arose to proceed towards the exit, he caught a glimpse of the phone in the young man's hand. And there on the screen were displayed just two characters.

And there on the screen were just two characters- :)

Das had learnt what that meant a few months back from his grandchild. His past flashed by him all over again. He wished he could relive, and escape those difficult times like this young man did, in just an instant. He remembered those days of wait to hear from her, those harrowing days of agony, sweeping all over him. Thoughts of his Khushi visited him all over again.
How he had wished he could be with Khushi always,
How he had wished there would not even be a grain of friction between them, and
How he had wished there would not even be a second of time uncommon between them.

Khushi, talk to me,
Khushi, write to me,
Khushi, come to me,
Khushi...

He tried to shrug off these thoughts, and he knew he would fail.
He heard a faint voice whispering, “In the end, it really doesn't ...... ”

But Das chose not to listen to that voice.

-nanda

for Khushi
:)