The stand handles that hung on the bus ceiling ached to be touched and clasped. They moved to and fro in harmony as the bus danced its way along the ditches and potholes of Kathmandu. The bus groaned in regular intervals as it stopped every time a passenger waved his hand, crying for a bus ride home. The passengers already standing on the bus hated it. One more person would be an encroachment of their private standing spaces, and here, more than anywhere, we were the slaves of our selfish selves. The air reeked of fart and sweat, and every time the bus jolted to a halt, we lurched forward in a ripple. We were like a bag of potatoes, uncomfortably close to each other with barely enough breathing space. Every squeeze on the seat cushion spewed puffs of dust; the window panes guided the evening light in hazy translucence, and all of us stood in our private bubbles, wary of life. Most of us were office clerks with neckties and black cloth bags dangling by our sides. Monotony hung in the air; a sense of routine oozed out of our white shirts and brown coats and exhaustion radiated from our dead eyes. We did not stand but droop; our tired bodies sagged downwards. But it was in this misery that my mind wrung back and forth with the bus and whirled in desperate directions to display the remote images of Suvasha on the back of my eyes. I remembered her beautiful voice on the day of our high school graduation.

“I hope to live a simple life. You know, the kind where tomatoes are growing in the kitchen garden; a litchi tree behind the house and a big garden of flowers: red, blue, yellow, and green all dancing to the wind. I would walk on my heels and feel the fresh fruity air caress my face. I want to be surrounded by good people, have a good family, and some gentle celebrations every now and then. That is what I want,” she said.

A few moments later, she had asked me, “What is your ideal life?”

It was a difficult question to answer. On any other day, I would have said that I wanted to be a great musician. I wanted to be famous and renowned. I wanted to play at Anfield for my favourite football club Liverpool or go scuba diving on the shores of Spain. I would have said that I wanted to be rich, amass great wealth and live the most luxurious life there is to live—a sports car in the garage, have fame, recognition, money and power. I would have said that I wanted it all.

Instead, I said, “No idea. I have not thought much about it.”

“There must be something that you want to do in life— something you want to accomplish before you die. Think about it. Everyone has at least one,” she said in her soft, husky voice.

The voice possessed a strange cadence. Her tone rung in my ears and constantly fluctuated, aiming to do justice to every word that she spoke. I could listen to her all day.

“I would love to go to Switzerland someday, run with the cows,” I told her.

The air molecules suddenly broke apart to pave the way for her deep belly laugh. I started laughing with her. My heart jumped in irregular patterns; it flung about in different directions and flew. The red robin in my heart glided peacefully in the cool summer air. It sang the tunes her heart sang.

“Cows? Really? Why would you want to run with the cows? You could have said horses," her laughter interrupted her flow and the words stumbled out of her in comical innocence," she said.

“Then where's the joke in it," I told her. "Anyways, that is not what I wish for. I wish to become an entrepreneur, build something like Apple, you know. I don't know what it is, but deep down, I feel like I can just do it. This voice in my head keeps telling me that I am going to be a great person someday,” I told her.

“You will never do anything remarkable. The tides will recede, and we will all die someday. So the sooner you realise this, the better,” she said, her voice sounding strong and resolute. The laugh was no longer there. It was replaced by a voice that sounded crude, bare and capable of malice. The sweet intonation in her voice had vanished.

Following her words, I found the quietude in my heart tremendously disturbed. It always seemed to me that my heart was a lake whose waters rippled on external circumstances and stood still on peaceful nights. I always aimed to preserve my lake from any turbulence, keeping it hidden and safe midst the jungles of my being. I had even built a cemented wall to protect it. But that evening, with the sun behind my back and the red sky above me, the water in the lake rose above the wall and flooded the jungle. Gigantic ripples and waves crashed onto the trees and vanquished everything within its demonic path. I was overcome with anger, and I wanted to slap her. Swooshing anger travelled along my blood vessels, seething as it pulsated every part of my body.

“So what's the point if I don’t become rich or famous or great? What's the bloody point? I want to be great, goddamn it,” I spit malformed words into her ear.

She replied in a long forlorn silence. With the graduation certificate clasped in my fingers and a badge on my school coat, I thought of everything I had done in life. I recounted every incident one by one. I recalled every victory, every defeat, every injury, every wet pillow and every laughing spree. I remembered myself balancing my foot on my father's shoulders as I tried to pluck litchi fruits in my grandfather's orchard. I remembered the day my sister learned to ride a bicycle. I also remembered how I strolled in the night, all alone, with nothing but my thoughts and the shimmering stars.

She stood up swiftly and walked towards the crowd of teenagers by the school garden. They were busy taking group photos, confirming each other's phone numbers, and hugging each other. Some of them were crying. Most of them had strange smiles on their faces. They looked at their school one more time in sweet melancholy, thinking how their lives would now turn for the better, or worse. Adulthood was at the door, and I believe none of us were quite ready for it.

I saw her going away that day. I had hoped that she would turn back one more time or meet me later to say goodbye, but she didn't.

The brakes hushed the bus to silence. One by one, the passengers got down and went their own way. It was the last stop. I got down and smiled at the conductor, who was busy analysing our faces to see if we had paid for the tickets. He did not smile back at me. I flung my black cloth bag behind me and proceeded to walk home. While I walked, I tilted my head upwards. It was a clear autumn night, and the stars were shimmering. The air was crisp, clean and sugary. I could almost taste it on my tongue. Here, near my home, the air was not polluted for I lived far from the city. One could say that I lived on the outskirts, but I never like telling that to anyone. In fact, I hate the word. But on that day, I was happy that I lived far away from the hustle. It felt good to be drowned in silence than to be floated in the extravaganza. The streetlights illuminated the road in their fluorescent bleakness, and no soul disturbed my peace.

As I kept walking, far away in the distance, under one of the lamps, an old guy stood at the side of the road selling vegetables. I bought four hundred grams of cauliflower and headed home. Once home, I flung my coat and white shirt on the bed, threw my cloth bag on the cupboard and tossed my socks under the bed. I boiled the cauliflowers, cooked rice and lentil soup in a pressure cooker. Once everything was ready, I put the food on a clean white plate and opened my laptop. I asked the media player to shuffle through my playlist of melodies. With Bob Dylan jamming on his guitar and stressing his 'N's in sweet melancholy, I ate like a king.