Indorean Chronicles... phase 1

Every time I sit in a bus from Sehore (the place I work) to Indore, I always have a weird feeling at the back of the head. I know that somehow, something weird will happen to me. And it does. And it’s not always fun. I love to keep shut in bus journeys, especially if the ride is for more than an hour. But these trips always have bizarre incidents in store for me.

The first time I sat in a bus for Indore, I met a burkha clad woman who in the three hours of knowing me spilt each and every aspect of her life onto my tortured mind. Not the usual grumbling of a 25 year old, mind. It was a tragic tale of love and loss and child marriage to a senile gentleman. And divorce. And harassment. And getting the love of your life married to someone else. And the pain of living as a divorcee. It was all laid out in front of me, like a novel I had to comment on.

And frankly, I was offended. Offended not because she had come and told me all of that; I realise it was probably because she had never been able to tell it to anyone before. It was frankly too much for me to bear. I tried my ardent best to sympathise with her misfortunes; but I felt it was unfair that she expected me to pass a judgement on her life. And worse, to give her a solution. I was so affected by all of it. That the pleasure of having a fun weekend ahead of me was lost in the misery of her life. I remember the only thing on my mind then was ‘why me?’

I know I must be proud that I could help someone. But that was once in my life when I wanted to jump out of the running bus. Before leaving she told me ‘I never thought I’ll find a friend like this. Thank you.’ While I was thinking ‘I don’t remember her name.’ To be frank, I wish I never do.