Before the Last Goodbye 1

“It’s not that, Ma… I’ve just never travelled this far alone before, so I’m a bit nervous. You know how they are—just sitting there, giving orders: ‘Catch the bus and come.’ Easy to say… it’s me who has to make the journey.” She sighed softly, dragging her suitcase behind her and glancing at the destination boards fixed above the line of buses.

“No, Ma, travelling from Sultanpur to Lucknow is fine—barely three hours. But Delhi? They say it takes seven or eight hours, but who can guarantee that? What if there’s traffic, or something happens on the way? Oh, come on, Ma—bad omens or not, do problems only come to those who talk about them? When you travel alone, these thoughts are bound to come. No, Ma, Ravi couldn’t get leave. He wanted me to take a flight, said not to worry about the expense—but really, me on an airplane? Never. If Ravi were coming along, that would be different. Alone? No, thank you. I’d rather stick to the bus.”

It was the bustling platform of Lucknow’s Alambagh Bus Station. Behind her lay the reception and waiting hall; in front stood the rows of air-conditioned coaches, while further ahead were the general buses. A chorus of mixed voices filled the air—hawkers, passengers, conductors calling destinations. Amid it all, Pallavi kept up her chatter with her mother on the phone, still looking for her own bus.

“Yes, Ma, he did suggest the train, but who gets confirmed tickets these days? At least in a bus, you’re sure of a seat. In trains, there are always more people than places—waitlisted passengers, daily commuters—always pressing in from every side. No, no, it’s not unsafe… just that I’ve never done such a long trip alone, so it feels strange. You people never let me travel solo either. Hey, bhaiya, is this one going to Delhi?” she asked the conductor standing by a coach.

“Yes. Do you have an online booking?” he asked, glancing at her.

 “No, bhaiya—please make one for me. I don’t know all that online-wonline. One minute, Ma.”

“After five rows, sit wherever you find a free seat,” the conductor said.

 “Okay… yes, Ma, I’ve found the bus now. I’m going inside. I’ll call later.”

She ended the call, slipped the phone into her handbag, and pulled her suitcase toward the steps.

“You can leave that here, madam,” the driver called from his seat. “It won’t go up. People will trip over it.”

 “What if someone takes it?” she asked, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

 “Never happened so far. Don’t worry—it won’t today either. People leave their luggage trusting each other. You can too,” he said with a grin.

 “Fine, but it’s your responsibility,” she said, sliding the suitcase behind his seat before stepping in.

Half the bus was already filled, though the front rows were still half-empty. She spotted a vacant seat in the seventh row, settled down, took a sip of water, and unlocked her phone again.

Just then, someone sat down beside her.

A faint masculine scent drifted toward her—sweat mixed with cologne—and she stiffened. She didn’t understand why, when there were still empty seats, he had chosen to sit right next to her. Men like that always seemed to find lone women in a crowd. She wanted to snap at him, but then stopped herself. What right did she have? Maybe he’d move away, maybe someone worse would come later. Not every empty seat promised a safer neighbour.

So she turned her face toward the window, trying to ignore the feeling.

But that scent… it stirred something deep inside her. Memories long buried began to flicker—memories of the few men whose nearness she had ever known. Her husband, of course… and one other. Someone from a time that still haunted her.

Her heart gave a jolt. Slowly, she turned.

It was him.

The same athletic frame. The same careless air. The same scent. The same Aakash.

“Aakash…” The name slipped from her lips like a forgotten prayer.

He didn’t turn. “Yeah. Going to Delhi. Saw you here, thought—why not travel together for a while? It’s not often I get that chance… might as well take it while it lasts.” His voice was low, casual—as if speaking to the air, not her.

“How are you?” Pallavi asked softly, her tone carrying the warmth of old affection.

 “I’m fine. Fit and fine. You look fine too—your face says it. So no, I won’t ask. In fact, I won’t ask anything.”

He said it without once looking at her, as if their eyes meeting might unravel too much.

“You’re still the same—arrogant, distant, too proud to ask but too curious not to know,” she muttered under her breath—just loud enough for him to hear.

He didn’t respond. He just sat there, still as stone, staring out the window, his face unreadable.

Written by Ashfaq Ahmad