A Passing Stranger Became Part of My Routine
Witnessing her assault changed both of us
Long long ago. Early Autumn, I think October. The office bus slowed down and came to a halt. I stepped down onto the pavement, pulling at my bag. As the bus hissed and trundled down the sloping road, I looked past it, beyond the top of the block of houses, the rows of trees, and above the far-off blue hills, at the horizon deepening at dusk. Red, orange, and streaks of deep purple. A shifting kaleidoscope of colours. It was the perfect evening. A puff of wind brought scents. Bakery, I remembered. I glanced at my watch; I had time. I crossed the pavement, weaved through the string of evening crowd, and headed into the shop.
With a tune on my lips, I started scanning the trays of food items behind the glass panel. A pile of samosas, their baked crust golden brown. Stacks of almond cookies. Soft thickly creamed pastries. Dish of jalebi, still steaming, shining with a thin crust of melted sugar. And sweets of varied colours — boisterous blue, sublime saffron, and minty green. The young-looking shop-girl appeared behind the counter, a brown paper bag, and a pair of tongs in her hand and I started giving the order. When I left the shop, my backpack was significantly heavier.
Outside, the evening had deepened further, the horizon redder, the air greyer. An…
