It was a ramshackle bathroom in a hill-station hotel: the Indian commode was under a stampede of muddy footprints and the tilted washbasin had an oily mirror thumbed by a host of unknown hands. Water frothed into the sink as a spectacled Kartar Singh stood there, each foot planted square in a tile on the floor. He had already dabbed his face dry with a small towel neatly slung over his shoulder. Now, patting this towel, he dried his wet hands and observed them clean against the washbasin white. After a quick search for his reflection behind the mirror's oily prints, he stroked his black beard peppered with twists of grey, adjusted his red turban and brought this routine to an end. Kartar Singh twisted the tap tight and shouldered through the bathroom door. As he left, the cubicle was swallowed by the same darkness that covered McLeod Ganj Bus Stop outside.
Kartar Singh commandeered Parvati Travels' deluxe bus, numbered HP 82-5285, on its sinuous journey from McLeod Ganj to Delhi every Thursday night, departing at 9:15 pm. With every passing week over the last twenty years, he had carefully curated the route from the bathroom to his wife and son – the objective, whom he collectively called JJ. Kartar Singh measured his prowess as a driver by the execution of this meticulous sequence which he had deciphered over time. By the exclusion of anything new, and a surreal repetition of the past, he was confident he would reach home on time. So, wearing the same grey kurta and carrying his ragged leather suitcase with dignity, Kartar Singh descended the rattling metal staircase of his cheap and carefully chosen hotel. He crossed the road snaking past tall and ominous pine trees in the dark, and then went down a dirt trail into the bus station.
The regular McLeod motley of people was standing about the platform: a Tibetan monk packeted in swirls of red and yellow, other Tibetans dressed casually in jeans and windcheater jackets, and moustachioed Kangri men – two were in Kinnauri caps. Kartar Singh could tell his passengers apart from the crowd because the Delhi youth always had kind of crackle about them, even in silence. They always congregated in a group near the platform's edge, as if by some unknown instinct. Three girls in Lady Shri Ram College jumpers were smiling at the darkness as they gazed into the distance. A couple of men tapped on their phones while ignoring their trolley suitcases which stood with handles extended all the way out. Then there was a lanky foreign man, automatically distinguished from the rest, and not simply because of his skin colour or his rainbow-coloured clothing. Such passengers usually travelled to McLeod Ganj but rarely took the route straight back. Kartar Singh could not figure out his nationality, but he was with a young Indian woman, and Kartar Singh anticipated that the pair would be kissing each other late into the journey.
Kartar Singh was the first from his crew to reach HP 82-5285. He deposited his peeling suitcase between the gearbox and the driver's seat and sat down, his hands absently tracing the steering wheel, his face in shadow and the azure of those nightlights that are peculiar to buses. He thought about JJ as the two remaining members of the Parvati Travels crew boarded the bus. Sanju the conductor, the only Himachali, walked down the bus aisle, his hands gently tapping the headrests as if he was blessing them for their journey ahead. Outside, Rocky from Delhi, the emergency bus driver, his pierced ear glinting under the bus tube lights, collected luggage from the passengers, who had finally located HP 82-5285,. As each passenger boarded the bus, they looked at Kartar Singh, who was encased in a rectangular doorway atop two large steps. But he looked firmly ahead. The passengers showed their tickets to Sanju one after another and sidled into their seats.