Twenty-Five
On Monday morning, Sunita read out twenty-five names on Bus 4, and she knew there should have been twenty-six.
She was the bus attendant at Lotus Public School in Nagpur. Every morning she stood at the door with the printed list, called each name, and ticked it. No child got off at school until every tick was done. In six years she had never lost one.
Last Thursday and Friday she had been in Amravati with her sick mother, and a teacher, Mr. Pawar, had filled in. Now she was back, and the list in her hand ended at 25.
She looked at seat 17, by the window. It was empty. A small steel tiffin sat on it, with KABIR scratched into the lid in crooked letters.
“Dilip bhaiya,” she said to the driver, “where is Kabir?”
“Which Kabir?”
“Kabir Shaikh. Seat 17. He talks about cricket the whole way, and every morning you tell him to be quiet.”
Dilip scratched his head. “Didi, there is no Kabir on this bus. There never was.”
She turned to the children. Twenty-five faces looked back at her, puzzled and kind. “Who is Kabir?” asked Rohan.
Nobody was joking. She could see that. They had all really forgotten him. She picked up the tiffin and opened it. The roti inside was still warm.