by Archit Joshi
The ferry bobbed on the calm water, humble and patient. The water was calm because there was no tension. There was no tension because there was clarity. There was clarity because the future hinged on merely two possibilities. Either the ferry would go towards the mist or it would manoeuvre right, make an about-turn, and head back to where it had come from.
The mist. Beyond it was a lack of knowledge so final that it was soothing. The U-turn meant familiar chaos and indecisiveness, which during that serene moment seemed a terrible fallacy. And yet…
***
The red light means nothing to me. Rarely does. Not because I am openly defiant to it, but because I am bound by duty. The siren – alarm and anxiety to others – is lost on my ears. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it comforting, but I will say because it blares, people can carry on with their lives. Whether that is a welcoming prospect or not, I leave the passengers to ponder.
My job is simple. Either I reach on time or I don’t. If I don’t nobody blames me. Even I don’t. Don’t know if I should. Probably would drive me crazy if I let myself think I was in charge of all those human lives. I’d be frozen, rooted to the spot, unable to bear down upon the accelerator.
Not the people in the backseat. No. They’re always full of nervous energy. They somehow feel if they expend this energy in just the right way, whatever fate awaits them will get altered. Whatever decisions have brought them to this point will get nullified and further chances will divinely be bestowed upon them.
Even the ones resigned to providence hold out hope. Like the man currently in my backseat with his wife and ailing father-in-law. Because possibilities spread out into a forest of dendrites for them.
Not for me. Every time I set the siren blaring, there are only two possibilities: either I reach on time or I don’t.
***
Surety is a slippery eel. She was caught up in a cataclysmic moment of self-doubt. The countryside was speeding by, a mournful note left behind indicated her departure. Driving her towards a new life was a tingling newness, an electric quiver down her spine, and here she was in the pillion seat, wondering whether the stale stability of home was actually the better option.
He had never intentionally done anything wrong that she was leaving him. Perhaps it was that he never did anything much that was off-putting about him. Always gentle, always polite. Always up to the task of doing what was expected of him. But never one to extend even a toenail beyond the line to experience the other side.
On the other hand, the one she now held tightly on the motorcycle lived permanently on the other side. Never showed up on time to work because… well, because everybody else did. Smoked one cigarette too many every day but made it look like he was trying to hide some inner pain in the thin smoke. His collar is always a little askew but his sunglasses are put on perfectly. He was newness, newness which she had longed to experience in her youth. Newness she would’ve experienced had her decisions not been made for her by family and traditions.
The rhythmic rumble of the bike lulled her thoughts into autopilot. And on autopilot, they wreaked havoc.
She had been wedded off against her wishes, yes. And somewhere her primal instincts had coaxed her into fleeing. She had been absent most of her life, even right up to this very moment, as the country scene had transitioned to a bustling city scene without her having realized it.
No more. If she was concerned, she would choose to voice her troubles. She would take a stand, and show some backbone. She would choose the very next moment to make things better for herself. Not later, not when it stopped mattering. She would instead choose the very next moment to confide in her co-conspirator that she was now irrevocably unsure about their affair.
She chose wrong.
***
The tring of the bicycle bell was exactly as he had imagined it. The handlebar glinted in the morning light. The gears shifted effortlessly. He pedalled furiously and with every hurtling inch, his chest swelled with pride and joy.
This was no ordinary bicycle. Well, it was pretty ordinary but not for him. He had worked hard to get his hands on it. Aced his report card. And finally earned the bicycle as a prize. On the carrier seat attached to the bicycle sat a dear friend, yelping with excitement at the whipping wind.
“Look!” He felt a tug at his shirt from behind. “A juice bar!”
Riding with a friend on the backseat was an exercise. Some juice would do them both good. It was the holidays, and they had some spending money in their pockets.
He cut through the intersection sharply and angled towards the juice bar. He could already taste the mango syrup dripping over his lips.
***
What would you do? What could you do? If you had two children – their lives ahead of them – suddenly appear on a bicycle right in front of your towering vehicle? If you couldn’t swerve left because an out-of-control motorcycle was rushing at you from that direction? A sidewalk full of pedestrians on the right which cancelled even that option for you? You would panic. Curse your luck. Clutch the breaks. Try to swerve whichever way you could and pray that a hair’s difference would be enough.
I did all of that. Except for panic. I didn’t panic because there was no uncertainty about the future anymore. The decision had been made. Today, I wouldn’t reach in time. I simply hoped that the one who came for me would.
***
The ferry was gaining momentum. The driver held up a lamp but it was no match for the dense, swirling mist looming up ahead. The 8 passengers on the ferry sat in a total hush, gazes turned longingly back to the bend in the journey that would’ve taken them back where they had come from. Colours and vibrations and memories and ambitions. All of it slowly being painted grey in uneven brushstrokes by the mist. Until finally the ferry passed over to the other side.
About the Author:
Archit Joshi is a published author from Pune, India who loves writing character-driven stories. His fiction spans across all possible forms and genres of writing. Archit had zero regard for colouring within the lines as a child.