It’s painted blue, the colour of the Indian cricket jersey. It’s partially faded. A banana farmer, a curator, two nurses, three masons… All of them wait under one roof. Some sit, while others stand like figurines. Waiting is a virtue with its taproot in patience. More than Hindus, Muslims or Christians, they’re passengers. An archetype of secularism. It’s enthralling as a miniature arboretum of culture. The ylang-ylang has bloomed behind. Fragrance and vibes linger in the air. The bus stop is a parasol for expectancy. Also, it’s a launch pad, sometimes a Zimmer frame, for thoughts. As the bus comes, minds return to their bodies. First published in Portmanteau LDN, UK, reappeared in Chipmunk, India, and then in The Literary Hatchet, US.