The wait.

 I stood at the end of the queue, at the ' mahila ticket counter' . People huddled up to escape the unexpected shower. Two little sisters played around their tired- to- the- bones mother.The drizzling was constant and people continued to squeeze under the small roof.I managed to smile wryly at the playful girls who stuffed their mouths with  'kurkure'.My stomach gurgled.A voice echoed from the ticket counter that the bus will arrive in another ten minutes.I waited in anticipation.


 The misty breeze brought an air of romance to the newly weds who took shelter under the tea stall. The 'chuda' clicked as the girl clipped her hair back. Though personally, I wouldn't prefer to wear chuda except for the D -day, I see a lot of women like the bright red dozens on their wrists, for more than an year.Her husband's back was bent under the load of a rucksack. He flexed his arms as he picked up another loaded bag.The girl insisted that she would carry one of the bags.The guy ignored her pleas and continued to walk. 'Dear stud husband', my heart said,' please pull the handle of the bag and just roll it'. Well, at other corner, a family from Punjab made the tiny space available, their home. They opened up their aloo paranthas and sipped tea with it.Meanwhile. women  discussed shopping and men made elaborate dining and wining plans.

Everybody was fatigued and waited to return home. The morning soapy odour was substituted by the stinking sweat of the day's labour. The crisp tucked in shirts were hanging  out partly on the bellies.The other hand supported a bag. The eyes looked clueless afar.The soiled shoes had telltale signs of rough terrain.The lines on the face conveyed the struggle of a living.And then the smiles returned in the  wake of optimism, for the day ahead. The reuniting with the family or may be savoring the food cooked by the beloved wife.Every face depicted a story.

The bus blared, the energy returned instantly.Home was not far now.