What's in a Name?

Gopaal'er baba, that was his identity. Kaajer Mashi, hers. Rakhi and Smita giggled as they finally managed to sit together. They would make it to SJ's class on time today. Mr Das wondered when he would wear earphones like almost everyone else did around him. He bought the exact things that his wife wrote out for him. But he was most pleased with the tangra. It was fresh, like a flower. Dilip babu spoke with Sunil about the markets crashing, between his teeth, a fluid red line of paan masala. He has been chewing it since the last thirty years, in spite of health advisories others always provided him for free. Sunil overlooked the topic. "India today?" Dilip babu asserted. Sohom was deep in his thick book on Botany, from behind his glasses, he could read all lines except that of fate. The incense-stick seller had already sold his ware to four curious customers. He made a mental note of the bus and its time. Diksha Jalan was finally happy to reach her college without the comfort of her air-conditioned car. Raju looked at Taposh and yelled out the route, luring and mis-luring passengers to board his side of the bus entrance. Sudip was at the wheel, bored with the same route, all the more because he was a very safe driver. Madhabi Samanta was one happy woman. Her pregnancy report came positive. As was Suman Samanta, standing beside her. Gatekeeper Sandip was as protective of the mud pot of hot rasgullas as he was of the Roys' gate. Ramesh broke his oath to self and picked the elderly gentleman's pocket, while he was on the phone with his Boss, explaining the traffic. The Boss's non acceptance worked in Ramesh's favour. Salman Aziz was going through his file one last time and recalling the tips of his soft skills instructor, to face the interview in couple of hours' time. A baby was whining out of the sweat rashes while his mother was not paying him much attention. Arijit consulted his watch, his stop was in ten minutes and his shift would begin in half an hour. He was pleased with his calculated punctuality. Hari had to rush to the nearby hospital to make it within time of the visiting hours. His mother was admitted with a broken leg. And yes, Radhakumari finally held close to her the electronic sewing kit, she could finally buy. These days they came in the size and weight of an office briefcase.

Different radio channels played into each one's ears. Selected playlists in others'. The bus's own sound system was drowned in the hullabaloo of the heat. Within half a minute, each of the channels were breaking their present to them, in distorted, noise-like sounds.

Radhakumari died hugging her sewing kit. Hari understood he broke more than a leg.  Arijit's punctuality was in question. The mother put all her attention on her now even whinier baby. She could barely see him. Salman Aziz was trying desperately to try his luck out of the window. The Boss would now know of the truth in the traffic, and Ramesh realized his broken oath cost him his life. He would never go on to spend the elderly gentleman's earnings. Sandip had no idea. The gate he was used to holding had turned into a river of sugar syrup. Mixed with metal clinks, blood and flesh. Madhavi was bleeding profusely, from everywhere. She shed tears of blood too, her husband lay under a thick cover of glass shards, and in his legs, stuck metal rods, of what she could not identify. He was quite dead, or as she hoped, better be dead. Sudip could hear his neck crack off from the rest of his body, as it lay on the giant steering. This was his first accident, ever. There would be no more to follow. And it was not even his fault. Raju and Taposh yelled out to each other, their non-competitive screams drowned in rubbles. Diksha Jalan's only wish was fulfilled. It could well be replaced by her last wish. The incense-seller smiled in spite of it all, there would be no nice fragrance over his last rites. He could touch his end. Sohom's thick glasses were everywhere, he was in a garden of pages, trapped. Neither Sunil, nor Dilip babu would get to know if India would win later this day. It was sad for Sunil to see Dilip babu die of something other than excessive tobacco. He could also see his left hand somehow clinging to his shoulder. Mrs Das would surely not have fish today, nor for the next fourteen days. The taangra died like Mr Das, quite like a fish out of water. SJ would never get to see Radha and Smita in his classroom anymore, and their giggles soon dissolved into helpless howls. The kaajer mashi's atrocious saree colour made it to the headlines, even though she could not make it out of her head. And Gopaal would have to go bald. His father was the first to be taken out, yet lose his life on the way to the nearest hospital.

Helpline numbers flashed across news channels. None of whom could have anticipated this unpredictable a death. They died in a democracy, democratically. Tragedy came in the form of an engineering malfunction. Families kept calling out names. None responded. One moment reduced them to a number.