Every morning the bus crossed the bridge to take us to the school. It stood over a flowing stream, the water came flowing from the nearby hills. It must have been an ancient bridge. The gap between the surface of the stream and the roadbed of the bridge had become so narrow that water flowed over it instead of beneath it. Even moderate rains made the water level surge and the swelling rush gurgled furiously. It appeared that steering through would not be possible. Delightfully, I always craned my neck out of the window of the bus when the overflowing bridge arrived, praying in silence, hoping that the bridge may collapse and there would be no school. But even before I could finish my prayers the bus would have plunged in the rough water, splashing the water into mighty heights with a ‘whoosh’, few spasmodic motions and the bus would victoriously emerge out of the submerged bridge.

 Collapsing of bridges, vehicles being swept away - so much of fiasco happening all around the world and this stubborn bridge would just not budge. I thought ruefully. Even the driver “Rajai Bura”, he had always been old ever since I could remember, would not deter from his responsibilities, always taking pride of his road sense, he should be declared unfit and given forced retirement, how could he risk a national property, the bus, and also play with the lives of so many children. Nothing happened. Months and years went by, the bridge stood unabated and Rajai Bura continued to drive unquestioned. And my prayers remained unanswered. 

And then.

One night it rained the whole night, like cow pissing on a flat rock. In the morning when we boarded the bus, raindrops were hitting the roof of the bus like bullets. I was free from any doubt that the bus would not cross the bridge. Holiday was inevitable. It was a Saturday, half day school but would soon become a no school day. I awaited with curiosity the arrival of the bridge. It was indeed buried in burbling uncontrolled water. The bus had to be stopped; Rajai Bura alighted grumbling to examine the extent of damage. The old man discussed something with the other stranded vehicle’s drivers. And then he got into his seat and ignited the bus. I thought happily that today the gods could be spared of my prayers. Prayer or no prayer the bus will have to return. But, the undefeatable old man changed the gear with a clunking sound and accelerated towards the tidal flow. Splashing of water, convulsion, collective uproarious “Whoa!!!” and the bus was on the other side. Rajai Bura must have felt heroic but I felt disappointed and angry like never before.

It rained ceaselessly and within an hour into school news flowed in that all road links to school have been cut off. The other route that the bus took after the school dismissal had caved in, water rose to dangerous level over the morning bridge so vehicles were stranded on either side of the interruptions. There was a third route back home, this was meant for pedestrians only, however few bicycles also took this passage, motor cycles were rare then. A narrow bridge good enough for one person to walk at a time connected the lands. Early dismissal was announced. Unlike the present day practice of over protective schools and parents, those days students were set free and no one lost their ways back home. The rain continued to fall insensibly with dogged determination. We took the walking route, drenched but jubilant. The narrow bridge had lost all the mortar, stones and bricks. Only the iron wires and rods remained as skeleton, diminishing it into a frail rope bridge. The water below hissed, frothing as more water gushed through. 

Like a flamboyant adventurer and tightrope walker we navigated our way to freedom. The unfallen bridge, the unyielding old driver and the incessant rain did not matter. What mattered was the brief respite from school.

Sooner or later, fully or partly all prayers get answered. Mine also did, only later and partly!