Woman on the Bus

I enter a bus, returning from staying at a friend’s house. I scan the front seats, and determine that my best chance of a seat lies in front, next to the saree-clad woman with a few shopping bags. The buses are relative enclaves of safety for me, as hungry-eyed men are relegated to the back seats, and I can tuck myself into a safe nest of women in the front.

The woman sitting next to me looks at me, curiously. I smile, something I would not do if there was a man sitting next to me. She smiles back and says something that I don’t understand. "The USA," I reply, assuming she has asked me what everyone else asks when they first meet me. She nods and smiles and looks out the window shyly. I think the conversation has ended, but a few minutes later she reaches into one of her bags and plucks out two rose blooms, pink and yellow. She offers them to me, and I shake my head, "No, I couldn’t!" But she smiles and takes hold of my hand and presses them into my palm. She smiles and squeezes my hand and nods. I smile and squeeze back.

When she gets off the bus, she looks up and catches my eye. We both smile. We have connected, in some small way. The city streets suddenly seem friendly.