When I first caught sight of him, he was occupying the
weathered bench at Sector 14 bus stop, clutching an older-than-he-appeared
newspaper. He wore a brown shawl over his slender frame, his gaze trudging down
the road with the unshakeable focus of one who's awaiting something—or someone.
It was mid-January, the Delhi winter in full bloom, and as I
wrapped my scarf closer around me, I saw how he remained immobile, a sculpture
cut out of silent grief. The 7:15 PM bus to Lajpat Nagar rumbled past,
screaming and billowing. He didn't budge. I got in, but my gaze was on him till
he was out of sight.
The following night, he was back. Same shawl, same bench,
same open newspaper lying in his lap. I held back from getting on the bus. My
curiosity spoke louder every day.
At the end of the week, I'd started going to the stop a
little earlier, just to observe him. On the eighth day, I couldn't help myself
anymore.
"Excuse me," I said softly, as I sat down beside
him.
He turned, slowly, as if drawn back from a far-off memory.
His eyes were misty but gentle. "Yes, beta?"
"Are you waiting for someone?"
He smiled weakly, folding up the newspaper and putting it
neatly on his lap. "My son. He said he'd be back."
I didn't know how to answer. A moment stood between us, warm
and still.
"When did he say that?"
He gazed down the road again, as if years were queued up
like buses. "1997."
I blinked. "That was. 28 years ago."
"Time doesn't matter when you have hope," he said.
And then, with the same measured elegance, he resumed his watch.
That evening, I lay awake. His words lingered in my head,
and I couldn't help but think about him—his face, his stillness, the
unimaginable pain of waiting for almost three decades.
_____________________________________
For the next month, I went to the bus stop more frequently.
Sometimes I took him tea. Sometimes we just sat in silence. I found out his
name was Ramkishore, although he instructed me to refer to him as
"Dadu."
His son Aarav had walked out of home after a fight.
Ramkishore wanted him to join the family hardware shop. Aarav wanted to become
an artist. Words were exchanged. Doors were slammed. He walked out with a
backpack and a roll of canvas. That evening, he had uttered, "I'll return
when I make something of myself."
"I trusted him," Dadu whispered, his voice so low.
"So I come here. Every night. This was our stop. He'd catch his bus here
to college. I believe. I believe he'll return the same way."
I wanted to share the odds. The hard truth. But his hope was
so innocent, so complete, I couldn't destroy it.
"Do you have any other relatives?" I asked.
"My wife died in 2005. A stroke. I had a younger
brother, but he stays in Pune. We've drifted."
He laughed suddenly, shattering the seriousness. "You
must think I'm mad. An old man running after shadows."
"I believe," I said with caution, "that the
world would be a better place if people loved like you.
Before long, Dadu visiting became the highlight of my day. I
was a freelance writer, so my timings were not fussy. We'd sit and chat over
hot chai from the vendor near our stall. I gifted him a scarf one day; he
wouldn't accept it. So I told him it was mine and I had left it there. He kept
it thereafter.
He spoke of his youth to me—his smile of courtship, his
bicycle with a crooked pedal, the moment Aarav first sketched the family store.
There was pride in each phrase, but a muted shiver of remorse.
"I should have let him go with my blessing," he
said one day. "But I gave more credence to fear than love."
________________________________________
February bled into March. The mornings were warmer, but Dadu
never skipped a day. Even when he had a cold, even when it rained. I took him
an umbrella. Again, he would not take it until I assured him it was an extra.
Then he was not there one day.
I waited. Fifteen minutes. Thirty. An hour. The 7:15, 7:30,
8:00 buses arrived and departed. But no Dadu.
Panic pounded in my chest. I phoned the tea stall owner.
"Baba didn't come today," he nodded, confirming.
"First time in years."
That evening, I visited the place he'd spoken of weeks ago—a
suggestion, more or less. "Near the old cinema, house with bougainvillea
vines."
After three wrong doors and three unanswering knocks, I saw
it. The vines remained, cracked and dry. The door groaned open. It was quiet
and dusty inside.
One of the neighbors came to tell me that he'd been admitted
to the hospital the night before. A fall, they explained. Nothing serious, but
he was frail.
I found him sitting up in bed, drinking warm milk, when I
visited the hospital. He smiled at seeing me.
"Missed our bus, didn't I?"
My eyes pricked with tears. "You scared me."
He reached out and patted my hand, reassuringly. "I'm
old, beta. These things happen."
He was in the hospital for two days. I went every day. In
the evening of the third day, I took his newspaper. He folded it and asked me,
"Will you go with me tomorrow? To the bus stop?"
"Of course."
_____________________________________
The following evening, we sat together as always. The wind
brought the smell of samosas. A bunch of children played cricket down the alley
nearby. Dadu was calm.
"What if he never returns?" I blurted out.
He did not glance at me. "Then I will have waited
nonetheless. And that will have been sufficient."
"How do you tolerate it?"
He smiled. "Because hope weighs less when shared. But
you, beta, have helped me carry it."
________________________________________
It was April that I discovered something that would turn
everything on its head.
While conducting research for a story on artists, I came
across a name: Aarav Ramkishore. A Paris-based award-winning painter. His claim
to fame? Depictions of everyday Indian life. One painting jumped out at me like
a bolt of lightning — a street corner with a hardware store, a boy waiting at a
bus stop.
Pounding heart, I wrote to his gallery. I didn't really
think I'd hear back. But two days later, I did. And it was from Aarav himself.
"Thank you for your message. I… I didn't know whether
my father would remember me, or forgive me."
I answered straight away. "He never forgot. He waits
each day. Come."
________________________________________
Three weeks went by. Daily, Dadu waited. I remained silent.
I did not want to give him false hopes.
Then, on a twilight Friday afternoon, just as the 7:30 PM
bus arrived, a man emerged. He had a plain kurta, a tiny bag draped across his
shoulder. He glanced about apprehensively.
Dadu was facing the other direction. I stiffened.
"Dadu," I whispered.
He turned towards me.
Their eyes locked.
Time froze.
Tears streamed down Dadu's face. His newspaper fell from his
knees. Aarav proceeded slowly, every step shuddering with twenty-eight years of
speechlessness.
They stood back to back.
"Appa," Aarav whispered, his voice cracking.
Dadu reached out and stroked his cheek. "You came
back."
Aarav dropped to his knees, crying. Dadu knelt beside him,
cradling him like the boy he once was.
People paused and stared. Some wept. Some applauded. But in
that instant, the world narrowed to a father and a son.
________________________________________
We went to Dadu’s house that night. Aarav looked at every
corner like it was sacred. He found his old sketchbook. His room was untouched.
Later, over dinner, he turned to me. "You brought him
back to me."
I shook my head. "You came back. That’s all that
matters."
________________________________________
Months went by. Aarav chose to remain in India, at least
temporarily. He painted more than he ever had before—pictures of Dadu, of the
bus stand, of fresh hope.
He asked me to come to his first Indian art show. One work
glowed: the park bench at Sector 14, two souls seated side by side. It was
captioned: "Hope, Shared."
_____________________________________
It was a year later that Dadu died quietly in his sleep.
Aarav held his hand.
At the funeral, Aarav leaned in and whispered, "He
waited every day. And because of you, he didn't wait alone."
I smiled through tears. "He taught me something: love
waits—not out of weakness, but out of strength."
________________________________________
These days, I still go to the bus stop from time to time.
The bench is weathered now, but it's never vacant. Someone always occupies it.
Waiting. Hoping.
Because some hearts never give up. And some stories—like Dadu's—never truly end.
________________________________________
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