The Bus That Stole a Day- Short Story- Ronald Hadrian

The Bus That Stole a Day

Have you ever woken up and wondered if your life would change? Rajan did not expect to change after these years. But it did. Radically. One wintry morning, Rajan squinted at his mobile phone as he woke up. He rose while his wife slept beside him. Winter gripped the hills, and waking early demanded effort. He dressed, pulled on khaki trousers and a shirt, pinned the worn driver badge, and adjusted his spectacles.

Grey hair spread across his head like silky threads. He sighed and muttered, “Few more days.”

He checked the other room. His son slept in bed. Tomorrow was his day off—he would spend time with him, he thought. College would end in a few years. He could rest then. His son would manage everything. He waited for the water to heat, then brushed and washed his face. (They usually bathed two or three times a week). His wife entered the kitchen sleepily.

“Tea?” she asked.

“No, I’ll have it at the depot.”

She returned to the bedroom. He rode his rickety bike through freezing cold to the bus shed the village had built. This was the only bus to Ooty or Kotagiri from his hatty. Five or six regulars usually waited for him. Today, no one stood there.

Darkness and cold surrounded him. After parking the bike, he let the engine run and stood near the exhaust as hot smoke poured out. He looked around—still no one. He fished the key from his pocket, opened the shed door, and squinted.

A regular passenger approached, noticing Rajan not moving.

“Hey Rajan, what is it?” He looked at Rajan and then into the shed. “Where is the bus?”

Rajan did not reply. He thought about the previous night, searching his memory quickly, nervousness settling on him.

“I parked the bus here last night, I am certain.”

“What?” the man jumped.

More people gathered.

“Where is the bus?”

“I have to catch the Coimbatore bus,” they mumbled in Baduga.

Ten minutes passed before the situation registered.

Rajan scratched his head. Someone had stolen the government bus. He used to hide the bus keys beside a flowerpot. He searched for them, and they were gone.

“Oh God,” a woman squealed. “Who steals a government bus?”

Ten more people rushed toward the shed, hearing the commotion.

“What?”

“But why?”

“What can anyone do with a government bus? You cannot dismantle and sell it to a scrap shop.” A learned man wrapped in a blazer over his dhoti spoke.

Rajan had driven the bus for twenty years. From brand-new to patched compartment, he had cared for it. He had spent his own money on changing seat covers and installing a stereo to play a handful of Baduga songs on loop so passengers could enjoy their commute.

“How do I send vegetables to market today?” a man shouted.

People grew agitated. One man with a coat and dhoti stepped forward and said, “We should inform the authorities. Rajan, let us go to the depot.”

Rajan drove fifteen kilometers to the depot. The cold forced him to stop twice to urinate.

“Damn sugar,” he muttered. He declined tea at home because they wouldn’t give him sugar, but at the depot, he could have as much as he wanted.

As he drove, he thought about the bus. He imagined it toppled over the hills, wrecked. He pushed the thought away and reached the depot.

No security guarded the entrance. They drove in and stopped at the office. Only the diesel attendant snored at the entrance.

“Hey, Lingesh Thambii!” he called.

The attendant startled awake and stood.

“Hi Rajan, where is the bus? Any problem?”

“The bus is missing,” he stuttered.

Lingesh snapped awake.

“What?”

The other man in a coat explained.

“We have to inform the in-charge. They will inform the police,” Lingesh said, dialing.

Rajan breathed as Lingesh explained.

“He told us to come to the police station by nine. He will meet us there.”

It was only six. They had time. They decided to search the surrounding area, asking if anyone had seen a government bus.

An old woman noticed him and asked, “I have been waiting for an hour and you are taking a picnic,” she reprimanded.

The man in the coat offered the old lady a ride to town while Rajan walked the road, asking around, searching for clues.

No leads emerged. He thought about how this place had only one government bus.

‘Dear God, why are you testing me?’ He cried at the edge of the road.

They searched for the police station. No one was there except the writer in the entrance.

The man in coat saluted. He explained to the writer. He looked flummoxed.

“Inspector will come any minute,” the writer said, leaving for tea.

In the deserted station, they waited for the in-charge and the inspector.

“They never come on time,” the man sighed.

“Yes, and this is my first time in a station.”

The inspector arrived after an hour. He looked agitated, shouting at the constables.

“Search every checkpoint, check trains, everything,” he was heard ordering.

They waited another hour to meet the inspector. The in-charge hadn’t arrived yet.

“What happened?” he barked.

After listening, he shouted, “Oh God, I don’t know. Someone in your village must have taken it. Go ask them first, then come here.”

“We asked, sir. We think it should be an outsider,” Rajan said.

“You are the driver. You are responsible.”

Rajan’s face reddened. “Twenty years I have been driving, sir,” he stammered.

The phone buzzed. The inspector answered.

“What, any updates?” His face reddened.

He turned to Rajan. “Come with your in-charge, now leave.”

As they headed out, the writer mumbled to himself.

The man in coat leaned near his table and asked in Baduga, “Why is he barking?”

The writer replied, “He is always like that. He deserves it.”

“What happened?” Rajan asked.

“His daughter ran off with someone.”

“What?” Rajan laughed, thought about his son, still snuggling under bed covers while the world raged.

“Then we cannot expect action on the bus case,” Rajan sighed.

When they stepped out, two men approached.

“We are from local TV. Can you tell us what happened to the bus?”

Rajan was shocked. The news had spread faster than he imagined.

The other man blurted, “No leads yet. Police are investigating.”

Thunder roared. The sky darkened, and by afternoon rain fell.

Back at the depot, this was an amusing case.

“Bus stolen—a government bus. That thief must have guts,” they bantered.

Rajan sat alone, thinking about the wasted day.

He worried about the villagers. How would they get to school or market? There was only one bus. By evening the police station buzzed. The news had spread. The inspector, despite his anxiety about his daughter, assured people and press that the bus would be found.

Details spread throughout the state.

By four the next morning, news arrived. They had waited in the depot for any call —an elderly woman had called and complained that a bus blocked her front porch and no driver was found. She complained that the bus blocked the driveway.

The investigation revealed that the bus was in a village in Mettupalayam.

Rajan rushed to the location with the other man. When they arrived, carnations covered the bus, as if a wedding had occurred.

Rajan and the man in a coat looked at each other in disbelief. They searched the bus. It was the same except for carnations.

“The police would arrive soon,” but his phone rang. His son was calling him.

Why is he calling me now? He answered.

“Appa, listen, don’t call the police. Opposite the bus there is a house with a red porch. Come there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just come,” the voice was agitated.

Rajan, confused, called the man and searched for the house. It stood in front of him. He strode in and couldn’t believe his son beside a girl covered in garlands from head to toe.

“God,” he stammered.

“Ha, a newly married couple,” the man in the coat said, not knowing it was Rajan’s son.

“No, no,” Rajan shouted. “His mother will die.” He didn’t know why he said that, but that was his reaction.

“No appa, no appa,” the girl said. “We didn’t marry.”

The man in the coat did not understand. “Why should his mother die if he is getting married?”

Rajan wanted to punch this man. “He is my son, you idiot.”

“Oh my God!”

They struggled to get Rajan seated.

The man in the coat said, “If I understand it right, your son is not married. I assume he wants to marry in front of you.”

“Who are you?” Rajan asked.

“First listen,” his son said.

Rajan couldn’t believe how this day was turning out. He shouldn’t have seen that goddamn reel when you wake up. Bad luck, always. He gulped water when another boy in a white dhoti walked in.

“I presume he is the groom,” the man in the coat declared. No one cared.

“Appa, listen, you remember him?”

Rajan looked up, perplexed.

“Minibus driver—Kattari route,” the groom said, smiling.

Rajan remembered. “Hey, what is this?”

Then Rajan understood.

“You—how dare you steal the bus,” he shouted, standing.

“Appa, wait! It was not his fault,” his son calmed him. “I helped them. I know where you keep the keys, and it was an emergency so I helped him. He wanted to return the bus by morning, but it broke down.”

“Sorry uncle,” the girl fell at Rajan’s feet. “Your son saved us.”

Rajan looked at the man in the coat.

“I think the girl is innocent,” the man declared.

Rajan sat. “Police will come now. You explain everything to them.”

After some silence, Rajan asked her, “Whose daughter are you?”

“Police inspector Balaji,” she muttered.

The man in the coat stood, understanding who her father was. “Balaji, Kotagiri Inspector!”

“Yes!” she put her head down.

“Your father is searching for you.”

Rajan stood, shocked.

“He is on his way. He will kill us. He will think we conspired against him.”

The coat man said, “We are all going to jail.”

“No appa, no one is there to help them. Let them go. We can take the bus and return.”

The police vehicle screeched outside. The man in coat looked out, his face pale. “He has come.”

Rajan stood and went out. His son followed, asking the couple to hide inside. The policemen examined the bus. Rajan stood silent.

“Who used the bus and left it here?”

“And why are there carnations?”

The inspector shouted. “We have to find the culprit. The FIR can continue.”

Rajan stood, processing.

“Sir, thank you,” he blurted.

“I didn’t do anything. Some guys played a prank.”

“I wish I found my daughter like this bus.” Rajan opened his mouth, but the man in the coat rushed and stuttered, “Don’t worry, sir, you will find her.”

He nodded, sadness spreading across his face.

“Take the bus and come to the station. You need to give a statement.”

Rajan sighed, but as the inspector was leaving, he looked back. “Rajan, your son—this is your son?”

He pointed at the boy.

“Good,” he turned and walked away.

Rajan picked up the new crew on the way and climbed the hills. The girl started crying. “I saw my father.”

“Yes, if your father had seen me, I would have seen my dead father,” Rajan said nothing.

“Where are you going to stay?” the man in the coat asked.

“We are moving to Kerala.” Rajan stared at his son.

As he turned one of those long winding curves, the police jeep overtook them and stopped. The inspector got out and shouted, “Are you kidnapping my daughter?”

Rajan was shocked. He got down, but his legs weakened and he collapsed.

Then suddenly, pain pierced his heart. He thought he was going to see his father soon. The last thing he remembered was seeing his son calling after him.

Three days later Rajan woke at KMCH, Coimbatore. He had recovered from a stroke.

His son sat beside him, and his wife too, teary-eyed.

The man in the coat walked in. “Oh finally, he is awake.”

“What?”

“The doctor says he will be fine. Here, I brought sweets.”

Rajan looked at the hospital ceiling. He knew the inspector would make his life miserable.

After two days, he asked about the couple.

The man in the coat replied, “Oh, they married.”

“How?” Rajan asked.

After he fell, the girl pleaded with her father. The girl had waited three years, but he never listened. “It was his fault—your stroke,but after some years he will accept them,” he said.

Rajan smiled. He was glad his son was safe. “Sorry appa,” he had apologised and gone to college.

Things were back to normal. His wife brought him tea with no sugar, and the man in the coat bought fresh juice and food from time to time. And then suddenly Rajan asked him.

“Hey, what is your name?”

The man in the coat declared, “Ragu.”

“What job do you do?”

“Oh nothing, I hang out with people, and I have something special for you?” he winked.

“Hang out?”

“Yes, I cling to people?”

“What about your family? Work?” Rajan realised he had been roaming with a weird man and did not try to know anything about him.

“I have family, but they don’t like me much…”

“Why?”

“Because of this?” he showed him a Jack Daniel bottle under his coat.

“Did you like the juice I gave you now…”

Just then his wife walked in and saw the bottle.

Rajan’s nightmare never ended after that. The man in the coat stammered, “this is a good tonic for your husband” as he was beaten by the nurses and Rajan’s wife.