After assuaging my parents' concerns on my wellbeing after my arrival to Kathmandu, I boarded the bus. The bus in its glory shone bright white LED lights. I, with a backpack too full with things my mom thought might come in handy, went for my seat. I had a window seat; B6 — mentioned the ticket. I put my backpack on the upper compartment of my seat and proceeded to be one with the multitude of others who, in some distant past, just like me, had taken B6. I opened a classic George Orwell, albeit on my phone, to accompany me in my journey.
After travelling a few kilometers, the bus stopped, as it had a few kilometers before, to load more passengers. The bus was quite similar to a cargo ship, if a cargo ship kept a tab on the class of the cargo being loaded. There were the elite cargoes, the ones that demanded to be kept in safer places given their affluence and delicacy. There were the dregs cargoes, the ones that accepted being thrown around, as if the mere scope of being allowed was a blessing to them. I, currently practicing the upper middle class, with my potentialities and fragility, was placed among the elite cargoes and I enjoyed the benefits that were bestowed. It wasn't that I and the numerous of my partners had no heart for the dregs, who were fortunate enough to make it to the ship but unfortunate enough to get a landing, but the unheard forces controlled our generosity of letting them travel with us, the unheard forces tied our hands in letting them one, so we had to stay, quiet and unaltering, in our comfortable places, while they struggled below us.
As usual, the shipment arrived – in numbers more than the space – and were quickly escorted based on their class. Beside me sat another of the elite, as decided by the unheard forces. If we had to calculate the probability of someone winning a lottery and the probability of someone of the opposite gender – same in age – sitting next to you, both of the probabilities would be insubstantial, but you'll still win the lottery. For the first time among the many expeditions from Dang to Kathmandu, there was a girl sitting next to me, and just like a bird on its first flight, nervousness rose through my spine. I checked my ticket and tried to get a glance at hers to check for a mistake and luckily there hadn't been any. Somehow, the ticket counter had dispersed two tickets of the consecutive seats and the tickets had landed in our possession.
Even though having felt the desperation to converse with my fellow passenger, I couldn't start a conversation. Between the lines of introducing myself and expecting an introduction, I couldn't help but sit in silence, as the bus travelled yet another kilometer. And in silence, I watched her delicate hands fiddling with her hair, her round eyes trying to get some glimpses from the window, her back muscles trying to find the best reclination angle. I had, among other things, forgotten about my other companion, '1986' was quietly residing – without a protest – in my pocket. Even George Orwell with his sophistication and wit wouldn't have been able to match the vividness in front of me. But as the phone in my pocket rang, with my mom's number flashing on its screen, I was obliged to answer. I was aware of the compromise I was about to make, my voice – in the nude — laid bare before her. After informing my mother about my unawareness about the whereabouts of the bus, I had to make something out of the phone, as trying to put it in my pocket meant awkward squirming which I wasn't prepared for. So, I tried to fiddle with the services – scarce in nature as a result of entering the jungles of the Nepali highway – available on the phone.
I tried to get a glimpse into what she was doing and to my surprise she was blasting some music into her ears. I had forgotten to notice her headphones and felt a relief in being saved from the unintentional revealing of my voice, but it was as likely that she decided to put her headphones to free her ears from bearing my gruffy voice. I was imbued with the uncertainty of the reason that brought her to the decision of putting on her headphones. After numerous attempts at trying to investigate the purpose—of something that might as well be totally spontaneous—and finding no solace, I slumped into my seat with my pairs of headphones in my ears. As, I swam through the lyrical genius of Hozier, Lumineers and the Wild Child, I pondered what she might be listening to. I felt the urge to ask her if she was more drawn to the lyrical aspect—like me—or the musical aspect of a song, I felt the urge to ask her to share an earpiece with me, but it was quickly subdued as the fear of her denial, in both answering my question and neglecting my request, rose and hazed my impulse.
The bus stopped for dinner near a restaurant. I felt that this was the right moment to dazzle her with my witty words, so, I put my headphones in my pocket and waited for her to do the same. She did put her headphones in her pocket but only after leaving the bus, butchering all the attempts at dialogues that could've emerged inside the bus. I watched her as the physical distance between us increased with the crowd of passengers filling in the space. I felt it would be inappropriate to approach someone outside the confined spaces of our seats, as this interaction, if it were to take place, would be voluntary, ripped of the randomness in the state of conversing while being seated beside each other.
It was a small restaurant, with space sufficient enough to fit the passengers of one bus but inadequate in accommodating more than one bus. They had an open kitchen right at the entrance where one could stimulate their optical and olfactory senses. The counter was situated just opposite to the entrance, with the proprietor dispensing red and white tokens. White tokens, the waiter said, offered normal Nepali dinner – rice, lentils and vegetables—while the red tokens offered chicken, hence, cost an extra hundred bucks. I opted for the red token, partly because of my fondness for meat and partly because the food in these highway restaurants is barely palatable without some lubricating animal grease.
After devouring every last grain served on the plate, I went back to my seat. She hadn't arrived yet and my anticipation was devoid of expectation. It is too late, I consoled myself and collapsed in my seat with the familiar tunes of Kelsey Wilson. When the moon sang its lullaby and the stars spoke of the night, as if a ritual, the glaring lights in the bus were shut off. I tried returning back to my initial—the only, as of now—companion, but my eyes weren't positive about my decision. Reading in the dark put a strain on them and they informed me stiffly with a faint pain in the frontal lobe of my brain. So, I shut my phone and just like every other passenger, tried to bring some heaviness in my eyes, but I couldn't fall asleep. Was it the roughness of the roads, or the echoes of the breaths, or the isolation amidst the crowds, whatever was the reason I couldn't fall asleep. I silently observed the darkness outside the bus and the darkness inside the bus; one was of nature, mystical and horror; one was of synthesis, sheltered and insulated; as if the very thing we were born from is somehow lesser known to us.
And gradually a flock of hair introduced itself to me; of cotton it was composed; of floral it smelt; of sapphire it appeared; of velvet it felt. Then fell all of a sudden, like the weight of spring cherry whorls on the sidewalks, a skull cushioned by more of the cotton. The position I was in, of a perch to a jay, was to be maintained, for this was our formal greeting – a handshake and a hug; a bow and a kiss; a fist bump and a wave—albeit devoid of words, it overcame the flaws of language. It communicated in innocence, with sentences replaced by sensations. I wanted to immerse myself in this interaction, to provide comfort to the resting skull, to soothe the soul of my fellow passenger. I wanted to convey a message, in the language that we now spoke, of warmth and affection, of fondness and adoration. While the whole world knocked itself dead, I was alive, and alive I was; lost in the vibration of her breaths, delivering the messages in each inhalation, translating the messages in each exhalation. I could feel the fragrance of her skin, as if our bodies had found the right resonance. They touched yet they respected the distance, the distance that kept me in my seat and her in hers. Somehow the wearisome journey, 12 hours for a mere 500 kilometers, felt short. Somehow the cramped seats, barely enough for a midget, felt vast, as I watched her sleep on my shoulders.
As the sun peeped from the hills and the world roared of a new day, the bus stopped for breakfast. I could sense her embarrassment when the first glance of her waking eyes was of a stranger's shoulder. She might've jolted a little as she came in terms with the information that seeped into her brain. I kept my shoulders warm, as if trying to hint the decency of her actions. She quickly rose and went outside while I remain seated. I felt the need to be seated, as if the movement required had already been fulfilled. I gazed outside, at the roads and the buildings, as they transcended from the depths of the darkness to the phosphorescence of the day. Kathmandu was arriving, and along it brought the departure with my fellow passenger. In hope and despair, I gazed as the world shed its skin of the night and put on a day. Shortly after, the passengers were placed and the bus moved again, tracing its final steps. In these final movements, I wondered what her name might be and where she was headed. Was it that our paths would cross again or was this only meeting allowed to us. And then she got up for her stop, to finally put an end to this journey. Goodbye, echoed my heart, to the chambers of my fellow passenger. She felt, as did I, the pulse of that wave, albeit devoid of words, but full of sensations. As she left the bus, I thanked and thanked, the circumstances for this endeavor, the unheard forces, that let me enjoy yet another voyage.