A STORY MEASURED IN BUS STOPS

 

The city bus groans to a halt, a tired sigh of metal and air brakes. “Durbarmarg,” the automated voice announces. I know this stop by heart; it marks the beginning of my story. This is where I boarded for my first day of college, a skinny kid with a new backpack and a stomach full of nerves. The air smelled of exhaust and freshly brewed tea. My head was filled with dreams of a different life. That day, I sat by the window, watching the world rush by, a boy on the brink of everything.

The next stop is always New Road. Here, the memory is tangled with rain and hurried footsteps. I was a young man then, chasing a job interview, my shoes slick on the pavement. I remember a girl with a red umbrella, her laughter a bright splash of color in the gray afternoon. We shared a fleeting glance, a silent conversation in the storm. I didn't get the job, but I’ve never forgotten her. My life took a different turn, but a small part of me still wonders about the path that could have been.

The bus lurches forward, past the familiar sights of Ratnapark. This stop is filled with arguments and reconciliations. It’s where my wife and I had our first real fight, a silent war waged across the bus seats. We sat miles apart, glaring out the windows; the distance between us felt vast. But it’s also where, a few days later, we met again, two tired people boarding the same bus, and found our way back to each other with a single, whispered apology.

We pass the hospital now, a place that holds both endings and beginnings. I remember a day spent waiting on a hard plastic chair, my hands clasped together, my heart racing. I remember the weight of my newborn son in my arms, a tiny, perfect bundle of a future I couldn’t yet imagine. The bus passes the stop, but the memory lingers, a phantom ache of joy and fear.

Now, the bus is approaching my final stop, the one that leads to the quiet street where I live. The streetlights are coming on, casting a soft, golden light on the pavement. I am an old man now, my body tired and my mind a collection of memories, each one marked by a bus stop. I get off the bus. The cold evening air hits my face. I am reminded that a life isn't just a journey from one point to another. It's a series of moments, all strung together by the rhythm of a city bus, a story measured in stops.