Bus No.33- A complete journey

A real-life experience that revived my hope in humans and trust.

• Short story
• Non-Fiction

								
The night pulsed with energy—Edinburgh Fringe 2024 was in full swing. Our plans were set: a Fringe show, a hike, and an after-party at Arthur’s Seat to bask in the moonlit city. House No. 21, our home, buzzed with visitors who felt like family. Govind had flown in from Australia, and Chaka, who partly lived with us, was visiting from Bradford. My sister, Kavi, Chaka, and I were eager for one last adventure before Govind’s flight. Akshay Chettan promised to join us after his late shift for the trek.
If you're curious about our crew, let me introduce you. Chaka is my best friend from school—my other half. Kavi, my sister’s best friend, is the light in my life, always solving my problems. Akshay Chettan is like a brother and mentor, a close friend of my sister. We all shared life in House No. 21. And Govind? He’s Kavi’s husband, now our true alliyan (brother-in-law), a bond made even more special by the events of this night.
We hopped on bus number 33 from Fountainbridge, laughing and chatting, heading to Old Town. We raced to the top deck, snagging the front seats—a small victory for me, offering a view of the world I seldom enjoyed. Pointing places we held memories of, all new to Govind. As the city zipped by—people bustling on the streets, traffic lights blinking, reflections shimmering off ancient buildings—I found myself lost in deep reflection. It was my safe space, especially when I was surrounded by my people, and I often disconnected, sometimes missing my stop entirely.
A tap on my shoulder jolted me back to reality. “This is the stop,” someone said. We rushed off the bus, stepping into the lively streets of Old Town. It was only 7, and our show didn’t start until 9. As we debated whether to grab food or drinks, panic surged through me.
“My phone!” I shouted, frantically checking my pockets. It was gone. I must have left it on the bus, likely on my lap. Wearing a dress instead of my usual pants, I hadn’t felt it slip away in my haste.
It wasn’t just any phone. Sure, it wasn’t fancy, and I didn’t care about the important documents or contacts it carried. What truly mattered was something deeper, something personal that tied me to my experiences and memories. I had never bothered to back anything up, and the thought of losing that part of myself sent my heart racing with panic.
“I’m sure it’s on the bus,” I insisted, already stepping forward as if I could somehow chase after it. But Chaka stopped me, grounding me before I did something reckless.
“Let’s figure this out,” Chaka said calmly, even as I spiralled. I wanted to run. I needed to do something. Kavi suggested tracking the bus to catch it at a stop ahead. Govind, ever practical, started locating the bus online. Eachi ordered an Uber. Meanwhile, Chaka held me, keeping me from bolting into the night.
After what felt like an eternity, the Uber arrived. “There’s no way you can all fit,” the driver said, but we didn’t have time to argue. Kavi and Chaka stayed behind while Govind, Eachi and I jumped in. Govind took charge in the front seat, tracking the bus, Eachi guiding the driver while I sat in the back, frozen with fear. Everyone else knew why the phone was important to me, except Govind. But he never asked me why it was important.
 I had always been someone who liked to control everything—trusting others never came easily. But now, I had no choice. My mind raced with worries about all the important things on my phone, yet I had to trust those around me.
Govind remained calm, tracking the bus as we sped along. “It’s still a few stops ahead,” he said. The driver, a recent immigrant trying to make a living, didn’t fully grasp our urgency. He followed every rule meticulously, and with every red light, my panic grew. I was on the verge of breaking down.
“The bus just left Commonwealth Pool,” Govind reported. That was five stops beyond where we had gotten off. My heart sank further, but I clung to hope that somehow, we’d catch it in time. 
The map said the car was 11 minutes away from the bus, but we were helplessly stuck in traffic. When we asked the driver to keep going until we found the bus, he refused, saying he couldn’t drive us anywhere unless it was in the system and would have to drop us at Commonwealth.
Govind instructed Eachi to change the drop location to somewhere more than ten stops ahead, so we’d have ample time to reach the bus before it left. “Royal Infirmary is twelve stops apart,” she said, and that was our best option. After that, the bus would go all the way to Miller hill, a place none of us had ever been, leading us into the unknown after the Royal Infirmary. We hoped twelve stops would be enough time.
The Uber driver sensed the tension in the car. He kept calm, explaining how to change the location. Once the location was updated, he said, “Okay, I’ll take an easy route to Royal Infirmary.” The journey began, and we tracked the bus as it moved swiftly, likely due to the late hour and fewer passengers.
To our dismay, the bus had already left the Royal Infirmary before we could get there.
Curiosity got the better of the driver. “Why are you so invested in tracking the bus? What happened?”
Govind replied, “We lost something important, and we have to get it.”
That’s when it hit me: we didn’t even know if the phone was still on the bus. I believed I had lost it there, yet here were four people, all in full force, chasing a bus, trusting that we would find my phone. They believed in my words—if others could trust me, why was it so hard for me to see that?
A million thoughts swirled in my mind as I sat quietly in the car.
Then I spoke. “Govind, I have a picture of my Amama on that phone cover.” Silence enveloped the car.
Eachi held my hand, and I could feel her touch, though I struggled to acknowledge anything beyond my own fears.
It was a Polaroid of her I had taken before leaving for the UK—the last photo of her, a month ago we had lost her. I hadn’t been aware of my loss because I was busy chasing my dreams. My family had conveniently kept the news from me, knowing how poorly I handled loss, especially of those close to me. Amama and I shared a special bond, filled with long talks, kitchen disasters, and sneaking ice cream together. I had promised to show her the Tower of London, a place she loved to watch on the news. My dreams were intertwined with the hope of bringing her to the land I longed for.
She had listened to my ambitions and prayed wholeheartedly, giving her fair share to temples, telling me I had made a pact with God: all my dreams would come true. The last time I spoke with her, she lay in a hospital bed, saying, “Sruthi has a program. Do well.” I didn’t have any program then, but that was how she remembered me—always doing something, running from place to place, while she waited patiently.
The picture held more history and worth for me than any treasure. I hadn’t made peace with her loss, and losing the last photo of her felt unbearable. It couldn’t be lost. The picture was mine to keep, and no god could take it from me. I would have lost all hope in this world if it was gone. I was on the brink of everything.

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