Daewoo express

The bus held forty eight people. He had counted. He looked in the rear view mirror. They were seated calmly. The girls in the front row, who had been talking so much and giggling endlessly were now silent. Maybe they were tired. It had been a long journey. It was half over, though. At the same time, there was half to go. The bus still smelled. The other drivers had told him it would smell like home. But he had only been driving for six months. He didn’t hate it as much as he didn’t have a choice. There was no employment in the city. He had mouths to feed. Money was money, right? His mba didn’t help. All he could get had been the job of a bus driver. 

The Indian sun beat down harshly on the bus as it trudged along the road. They were off the highway now. He pressed his foot on the accelerator. No more speed checks. He could be faster now. Didn’t have to watch out for the police at their stops. The soft humdrum of commotion, but mostly of the bus as it made its way across the country. Most people were silent. Some were listening to music on their hands free. Others were asleep. Still others were looking out in silence. Very few were talking to one another. He mostly had single passengers today.

He looked in front of him. This was a beautiful country. He looked in the rear view. The people though. In front of him was green. Trees, standing tall. In the distance. Soon they would be going around them.

Behind him was a road where you could see mirages on the baking gravel. You saw it shimmering as if there were water on the road and then when you came closer, it would go further away.

This was a beautiful country.

A man stood up. Aged. Bearded. Infirm. His eyes seemed to sparkle but without the luster of youth. As if he had seen too much. His face was pockmarked. “This is my daughter.” He pointed at the girl next to him. Young. Sixteen maybe. Around about that age. The driver did a double take. She was beautiful. Fair. Slender. Her eyes were pretty. Her hands delicate. Wow. “I am an old man. I have no sons. I only have this daughter of mine. No one seems to want her hand in marriage. Is this what Islam tells us?” He was breaking down voice cracking. Tears streaming down his face. “Look at her.” He pauses, his voice on the edge. “No one wants her to be his wife.” Her head hung low in secret shame. He wondered if she were crying. “Is this what our religion tells us?” He almost shouted at the bus. Silence. Everyone had been looking, they were now looking at the girl, as if wondering. Another elderly man stood up. Younger than the first. But still old. Greeting hair. “I have a son. I will marry him to your daughter, if you will let me.”