Chapter – 2
("Is this bus your father's?")
Aishi was sitting by the window, her hair messy, staring outside. The June sunlight was harsh, wrapping around her in the afternoon heat, yet she didn't move. The city's busyness passed before her eyes, but her mind seemed stuck somewhere else.
For the past few days, she had been seeing a boy named Ayush on this same bus. Every day, while boarding or fighting over seats, they ended up in small arguments. But today, it had gone a bit further.
It was 11 a.m. Aishi was standing at the Gariahat bus stop, holding a bag in one hand and a water bottle in the other. Suddenly, a bus arrived, and everyone started running. Aishi lowered her gaze, clutched her bag tightly, and ran. At that very moment, a boy from beside her also rushed in—towards the same seat.
— "This seat is mine! I got it first," Aishi almost shouted.
— "What do you mean you got it first? I sat here before you," Ayush replied calmly, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.
— "You sat first? I had already reached out and touched that seat over your shoulder. Just sitting like a scarecrow doesn't make it yours," Aishi snapped sharply.
Passengers around them started looking and laughing. The bus shook as it moved through suffocating traffic.
— "Alright, you sit. I'll stand," Ayush said, not irritated—rather holding back a smile.
— "If you stand, I'm not stopping you! Go ahead, stand. That'll be great," Aishi replied, placing her bag on her lap.
Ayush stood by the window, looking at her for a moment. There was playfulness in his eyes, but also a growing curiosity.
The next day—same bus. Same encounter. Same argument.
Third day? Again!
For six straight days, they met on the bus, and every day brought some kind of verbal sparring. One day, Ayush directly said—
— "Is your name 'War'? Why do you start a battle every day?"
— "Is your name 'Problem'? Why do you create problems all the time?"
After the fourth day, they began to recognize each other. Amidst the arguments, softer moments started slipping in. Like one day, when Aishi's water bottle fell from her bag, Ayush silently picked it up and handed it to her.
— "Thank you," Aishi said hesitantly.
— "Oh! I heard 'thank you' from you today? God's grace!" Ayush joked.
— "Why do you always bring up 'Allah' in everything?"
— "Because in my religion, we begin our words by remembering Allah."
Aishi paused. Then she turned her face away.
That evening, sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, Aishi remembered—
"Because in my religion, we begin our words by remembering Allah…"
Her mood turned heavy. She knew—she was Hindu. And already, religion had entered her life, even before anything had truly begun.
On the fifth day, when Aishi boarded the bus, she saw Ayush sitting, looking out the window.
— "No argument today?"
Ayush didn't look at her. He simply said—
— "If you want, I'll stay quiet today."
— "Hmm, maybe because I got a seat today, you don't have much to say."
This time Ayush turned and said—
— "I didn't take the seat today. I kept it empty for you."
Aishi's heart skipped a beat. But she said nothing.
Three more days passed. Fewer words, but their eyes spoke volumes. On the ninth day, Aishi boarded the bus and saw Ayush wasn't there. It felt like something had been taken away from her world that morning. Somehow, the day passed.
On the tenth day, they met again.
— "Why didn't you come yesterday?"
— "Had some work at home. But I'm glad you noticed I wasn't there."
— "It's not like you inform anyone whether you come or not!"
— "So… you missed me?"
— "Who would miss someone as thick-headed as you!"
Ayush laughed. For a brief moment, a soft smile appeared on Aishi's face too.
And like this, their strange push-and-pull continued for days. Neither confessed anything, neither asked the other's full name, where they studied, or where they lived. Yet, their sweet arguments, shared glances, and small everyday moments slowly began weaving an unknown story—one that had just begun.
But neither of them had yet faced the harsh truth ahead—
their religion, identity, society, and family barriers—
which, in time, would replace their laughter with tears.
To be continued…