Inspersion

I was in eighth grade. School started at 9:15, but I had to board the schoolbus at 7:50 from Mouchak, Golpark. I'd be the fourth girl on the bus, Ananya, Sukanya and Anna being the first three. Everyday Janki Di used stuff all four of us into the second-last long seat on the bus. Empty bus. Four girls stashed and squeezed into one seat. Bippity-bumping along the way. Janki Di retired that Pujo and the day school opened we each waited at our usual stops, tingling with excitement. When I got on that day, they ALL had window seats. We made wordless pacts to honour each others' chosen seats. I got the nice one. The two-seater which was above the back tire on the left of the bus. And just like that, I saw him.

We used to go on straight from Golpark cross the bridge and take a U-turn at the 8B bus-stop at Jadavpur. Three boys used to wait there for their school bus (or so I reasoned). White shirts, white pants. Tie with stripes. Needless to say they were cute. The one that was especially cute used to go on tiptoes to try and see if I were on the bus from the moment we started making the turn. It was quite amusing, in retrospect. But my 14-year-old heart would be all a-flutter. And every day I consciously avoided his gaze and looked ahead, out the front of the bus. This went on for about two years. Everyday I would wait eagerly for that moment. It was marvellous really. Everyday I would steel my heart for a no-show. But he never missed a day. Like he was designed to never be sick. Always there.

On "our" second Valentine's Day (yes, as cheesy as that), I had decided to finally give up the cold shouldering. I would look. And if I could overcome further shyness, I would wave. And that was the day the impossible happened. He wasn't there. I frantically twisted around in my seat, looking for him, willing him to appear, but he didn't. And never did again. I was miserable for days. It was like a break-up. I cried. I moped. I wrote sad letters and poetry. I started growing up.

My last day on bus No. 8 was my last day in school, right after my 10th grade Selection Test and before we went on prep-leave for the board examination. I had almost forgotten by then. As bus No. 8 turned at 8B bus-stop, right at that fated moment, it rumbled to a halt, mid-turn. And refused to start. There was a problem. We waited anxiously because we didn't want to be late for our last day. It was important. Pictures, signing shirts, eating, crying. As calls were being made to the school for alternative transport, we were allowed off the bus with Maya Di, our new bus-ayah, to buy chips at a store. And I saw him. He wasn't in uniform. Maybe his school had already closed. My heart skipped a beat. I panicked when I realized he was coming toward me. He reached the shop and asked for a tiffin-cake and a packet of biscuits. Then slowly, ensuring no one saw, he leaned closer and "accidentally" brushed my arm with his. I sighed. He left.

While returning from school that day, I was happy. We had cried, hugged, and made false promises. And I was especially happy. I felt like what had happened was proper. When I got off the bus for the last time, I felt strange. A bit sad perhaps. As I slowly started walking back down the road toward my house, I saw a back that was instantly familiar. The boy was sitting on the back seat of a bike, in front of Hallmark. My heart skipped yet another beat. As I walked past, he grabbed my wrist. We looked at each other blankly.

"I followed the bus from when it left your school," he said sheepishly. Then, "I'm Himadri."

Snap.

I ran away.

Never saw him again.

Till today.

And we both recognised each other. Skipped beats. Stared. Went our own ways.