It was a chilly January night. All passengers had kept their windows closed while darkness enveloped the inside of the bus and the world speeding by outside. Nothing was visible except for the intermittent flashes of headlights revealing the silhouette of the trees lining the road. For Arun, the six-hour ride to university on the state transport bus was back breaking as usual, and felt like unending.

Since childhood, Arun had often travelled on this highway with his parents during his father’s visits to U.P. for his environmental research projects. During the evenings, he and his parents would often go and sit by the Ganga on one of its several ghats and listen to the sounds of the river, chants, bells and that of silence. Arun’s restless mind, on seeing the polluted state of rivers like Ganga, littered with flowers, incense sticks, garbage, feces and carcass, would curse the Indians who didn’t know how to keep their country clean. For him, Ganga exuded everything from poor governance to the stagnant mentality of Indians, not purity and sanctity, symbols which the river stood for in India’s cultural ethos. Was there any use of the cleanliness initiatives taken by the NGOs and student bodies when the people themselves are not willing to change? How do you educate millions of Indians to not wash themselves and their clothes in the river? That they should pray for the deceased souls but not throw their remains into the river?

The bus jumped over another pothole in the road. This highway had been in a broken state for as long as Arun could remember. He wondered why doesn’t the government spend some money for the proper maintenance of this highway? How can they just let their national infrastructure remain broken for ages?

Vehicles often came to a halt on this road due to uncalled traffic jams caused by an overturned car or a bus climbing over the divider. In the summer season, when the buses are stranded during such accidental stops, young boys would appear out of nowhere selling chana dal, carrots or radish sprinkled with black salt, chopped coconut, and cold mineral water in plastic bottles with brand labels Arun had never heard of. Sometimes he would wave to one of the boys asking for a carrot or a water bottle but then his hygiene concerns would prevent him from buying one. The carrots were probably not washed, the source of water was doubtful, maybe from a dirty part of Ganga?

Do Pal Ruka Khwabon ka Karwaan….one of his favorite romantic songs was playing on his Walkman. Last year, he and Shreya had sung this duet during the college fest to the applause of a packed audience. Their friendship had soured for a while now as Shreya’s growing proximity with Rishi was making Arun increasingly uncomfortable. They would fight often and after a bad argument over yet another inconsequential topic, they had not been on talking terms for much of the last semester. He hadn’t been focusing on his studies. In the last mid terms, he barely passed the computer science and structural biology exams. Thankfully chemistry kept him afloat. He bunked classes frequently and avoided any social gathering as his mind was constantly full of thoughts about how to handle his feelings for Shreya.

The bus was approaching his stop. Maybe tomorrow he will ask Shreya out for a coffee and talk about casual matters. It might make things easier. After all they have been close friends for three years.

The bus stopped and he got down. It was 11.45 pm and the air was very cold. Arun held onto his jacket tightly. At least four rickshaw wallahs called out in unison. “Ambedkar House… Patil House… Patil House…. Shivalik House….” He ignored them all and moved ahead.

As he looked around, a boy came running to him.

“Bhaiyya, where do you want to go? Come with me. Haven’t had a single passenger all day. Where do you want to go?”

Arun looked at the boy. He was probably not more than ten years old, very thin, his face looked pale with the effect of the chill. “How much for Shivalik?” he asked the boy.

“Give me fifteen rupees.” The boy took his bag and started moving.

Arun stopped him, “Hey, ten rupees only!”

“Give me fifteen rupees bhaiyya, haven’t had a passenger all day.”

That is not my problem. Arun thought. He was not willing to pay an extra five rupees. In this cold, he would need it for his nocturnal cup of tea at the hostel canteen.

The boy was desperate. Seeing Arun was not willing to pay fifteen rupees, he agreed for ten rupees. Arun was happy to get his way and sat on the rickshaw. The boy started pedaling fast. The bus journey had tired Arun and he felt sleepy. After a month-long break, it was time for yet another semester of struggling with the boring courses, horrible mess food and awkwardness with Shreya. Why does destiny always conspire to bring all the bad things together in his life? He decided to skip his morning class to delay the inevitable a little more.

They were now passing the university ground. A crescent moon was shining in the midst of the partly formed clouds. The ground was empty and lifeless. It will spring back to life tomorrow evening when the guys would come to play cricket after the classes. There was the goalpost. That is where they were sitting on the grass – Rishi and Shreya, when Arun had seen them last semester while going back to his room one evening. Sitting closely, laughing intimately, Shreya’s hand curled around Rishi’s arm. Arun tried to forget that image. He was shivering and held onto his jacket tightly. The temperature was around three degrees. His eyes fell on the boy. He was still pedaling very fast. He was wearing no woolens, only a pair of shorts and a shirt, larger than his size, which was flowing wildly allowing the cold wind to bite his skin beneath it.

Arun asked him, “Are you not feeling cold?”

The boy kept pedaling without replying.

Not sure if the boy had heard him, Arun repeated his question in a louder voice, “Hey! Are you not feeling cold?”

“Sister is hungry at home. She hasn’t had her milk for two days”, the boy answered back this time.

Arun wished he hadn’t asked the question.

After a few moments, he asked again, “What does your father do?”

“Father is not around anymore.”

“And mother?”

“Mother works at different households.”

“There is no water at home. I haven’t had a passenger all day. Sister is hungry at home; have to get milk for her.”

The boy’s shirt was flowing wildly with the wind and it seemed the colder he felt, if he felt it, the faster he pedaled.

On reaching the hostel, Arun took out his wallet and shuffled through the notes inside. He took out a twenty rupee note and gave it to the boy and signaled him to keep it. The boy quietly accepted it, turned his rickshaw and started riding back. As Arun saw the boy and his rickshaw disappearing into the night, he wondered if the boy will find the milk to feed his sister and whether he himself will eat anything.

He wondered if this little boy, riding a rickshaw at midnight in cold January, had the time to complain from his life and the world around him. He obviously wouldn’t complain about the carrots or coconuts those boys sell on the highway. He would be grateful to have some right now for his family. If there is no water in his home, then where do they bathe and wash their clothes and dishes? Maybe in a nearby dirty stream which will ultimately meet the Ganga somewhere. Will the boy ever get the chance to think of going to a school and to a college someday? Given the opportunity, will he have the time to waste it?

Arun could feel himself shivering again. He picked up his bag and went inside the hostel. He decided to skip his night tea. He had a class to attend next morning.