Can't control, can't find it!

This Sunday, I missed my train by a mere 12 hours, thanks to an AM-PM mix-up, and there I was stranded at a bus stand for nearly two hours. Dogs were sleeping on waiting chairs, people lay sprawled on the floor, and surprisingly, both seemed at peace. The food landscape was crowded with oil-dripping poori bhaji, stale bread pakoras stacked on large round thalis, counterfeit but convincing packets of Lay’ss and Uncle Chipps, and the ever-present aroma of overly sweet tea being brewed non-stop.

The ticket windows and enquiry counters were swarmed with long queues. Voices clashed in the air, people shouting, the smell of sweat lingering. Village women either trailed behind their men or, if alone, struggled to find the right bus, confirming its number with at least five different people. Rows of buses stood in line, their faces smeared with the remnants of betel leaves.

Thankfully, my wait was for a deluxe AC bus, still two hours away. As I scanned the scene, a woman’s voice made me turn. A young village woman, no more than twenty, sat beside me, her face partially hidden behind a ghoonghat. Sindoor adorned her hairline, and her wrists jingled with bangles. She was on the phone, and since she sat right next to me, I couldn't help but overhear.

"Listen, I can't control it... I can't find it anywhere... I'll have to go outside... I can't tell Babuji (father-in-law)."

Must be her husband, on the phone, I thought. I glanced at her again, then at the surroundings, trying to put the pieces together. Concerned, I leaned toward her and said, “What happened? See, washroom is right there. No need to control… just go, I’ll watch over your belongings.”

She burst into laughter, leaned in, and whispered, "Oh no, Didi! I’m craving gutka… but I’ve come with my father-in-law, so I can’t say it out loud."

I couldn't stop laughing either. Without a second thought, I left my belongings with her and went to fetch a few packets of gutka. When I handed them to her, she quickly pulled her ghoonghat lower, took a pinch, and finally looked at ease—the same kind of relief we feel after smoking away client’s absurd feedback.

And just like that, I became her confidante. She talked and talked, pouring her heart out to a complete stranger. Within an hour, I learned that she was from a remote village in UP, newly married just last month. She was visiting her parent's home with in laws. Her mother had passed away when she was little. She never ate at hotels since once, she had found a human finger in a bowl of chicken curry - yes you've read it right. Her sister-in-law was jealous of her. And her secret stash of gutka? Hidden in a small pit on her husband’s farm, where she enjoyed it in his company while working alongside him. From horrified to happy, I felt like every emoji there has ever been. 

Yet, in all this heartful chatter, she never once asked about me. I am glad she didn't, had she asked about me, it might have brought an inexplicable difference between us, and our conversation would not have been the same. She simply trusted, shared, and spoke. 

Then, my bus arrived. As I said goodbye, she smiled and said, "Alright, Didi, we’ll meet again someday in life."

I couldn’t stop thinking about her during my journey from Jaipur to Gurgaon. It made me realize, how effortless it is to form attachments, if we really want to. All it takes is a brief moment… when trust emanates. A smile flashed across my face as I thought to myself: happiness is being able to keep the trust of a complete stranger and offering a listening ear for someone to open their heart to.

----The End----