The Danger of Feeling Safe
The hood could not hide his tears from the other top deck travelers. They rolled down his face at the same pace as the bus, which trundled between dregs of people gathered around flimsy shelters punctuating the streets parallel to the coastal road.
That chronic, mostly unnoticed jaw clenching and the tensing of muscles so unconsciously involved he couldn’t name them, nor tense or relax them at will. Sending stern inner words to that undefinable feely part inside like his father probably did externally once or twice upon a time. Alternating between absorbing scrolling and absent window gazing. It had all been keeping his face a dry, if oily place.
But then the woman a few seats back had picked up the phone call from her mother. You could hear the warmth between them, and the innocence unassuming in how she asked for guidance, spoke about her life. And the kids at the back were gossiping about some girl who was seeing some guy even though she told some other guy she liked him or something, the silent excitement of their chat speaking of how they wished they too could be so bold. And all conversation went unbroken when an Indian woman emerged at the top of the stairs dressed in a sari, her bindi drawing attention to her mind’s eye, and therefore also to the…
