Nirved Karmakar had the habit of checking time even when there was no reason to.
He checked it while waiting for tea to boil, while tying his shoelaces, while unlocking his phone for no particular purpose. Time, for him, was something that could slip away if he didn’t keep an eye on it like loose change from a torn pocket.
So when the bus broke down on a narrow road somewhere between two places that didn’t appear on his office map, it irritated him more than it surprised him.
The conductor said the nearest village was a short walk away. “Sukhbela,” he added, as if that meant something.
Nirved stepped off the bus anyway, dust settling over his polished shoes like an insult.
The road to Sukhbela curved without urgency. No honking, no rush, no one looking at their phone while walking. Just a slow road, lined with trees that seemed older than the idea of schedules.
He walked faster than necessary.
At the edge of the village, he found a tea stall. Not the kind with loud chatter and plastic chairs. This one had a wooden bench that leaned slightly to one side, as if it had given up on straightness years ago.
A man stood behind the counter, pouring tea in a long arc between two steel glasses.
“Bus?” the man asked, without looking up.
Nirved nodded.
“Will take time,” the man said, as if discussing the weather.
Nirved checked his watch.
The man noticed. “It will still take time,” he added, gently.
The tea was hotter than expected. Nirved held it carefully, blowing across the surface. The man behind the stall had already moved on to something else, arranging jars, wiping a surface that wasn’t particularly dirty.
No rush there either.
A boy ran past, chasing something invisible. A woman called out to him from a distance, her voice stretching across the air like a thread. Somewhere, a radio played a song so old it felt like it had stopped trying to be remembered.
Nirved checked his phone. No signal.
Of course.
He placed it face down on the bench.
“First time?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Nirved wasn’t sure what that meant.
The man handed him another glass of tea without asking. “On the house,” he said.
Nirved hesitated, then took it.
“People come here only when something stops,” the man said. “Bus, rain, plans… something or the other.”
“And you?” Nirved asked.
“I stayed when something didn’t start.”
That didn’t clear anything up, but it didn’t seem like it was meant to.
Time passed.
Not the kind that could be measured in minutes, but the kind that stretched and folded in quiet ways.
Nirved noticed things he wouldn’t usually notice.
The way the sunlight moved slowly from one side of the stall to the other, like it was exploring. The uneven rhythm of a handpump nearby. The pattern of cracks on the wooden bench, like a map of places that didn’t exist.
At some point, he realized he hadn’t checked his watch in a while.
He didn’t reach for it.
An old man arrived, carrying a bundle of something wrapped in cloth and sat beside Nirved.
They shared the bench in silence.
After a while, the old man unwrapped the cloth. Inside were guavas - small, slightly bruised, smelling faintly sweet.
He offered one.
Nirved took it.
It wasn’t perfect. A little too firm in some places, softer in others. But it tasted… real. Not like the ones he bought in neatly arranged rows at the supermarket, each one identical, each one forgettable.
This one stayed on the tongue a little longer.
For a while he hadn’t been thinking about the bus.
He wiped his hands on his handkerchief, then stopped halfway, noticing the faint scent of guava still clinging to his fingers.
He didn’t wipe it off.
When the bus finally arrived, it made the usual noise, engine coughing, brakes complaining, people shifting in their seats with impatience.
Everything felt louder than it should.
Nirved stood up, brushing dust off his trousers. He picked up his phone, his bag, his sense of direction.
He looked at his watch.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he adjusted it just a minute back.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Just enough.
As the bus pulled away, Sukhbela didn’t disappear dramatically. It simply… stayed where it was, as if it had no interest in being remembered loudly.
Nirved sat by the window, watching the road unwind.
For once, he didn’t check the time.
There was something else to look at.