I saw several nightmares last night. In one, I had killed someone and I was grappling with the bloodied newspapers and a green jacket, and trying to hide the murder weapon. In the second, I saw a dear friend’s venture failing and turning into ruins. In another, I was late to work.
Guess which one became the reality?
I had barely had breakfast when I realized that I was getting late. I thought I could just make it, but no. Even though I was on my stop just four minutes late, it set things back. The first tempo wouldn’t pick me up because it was full. I couldn’t believe. What about all the other times you make people hang in the front and the back, I lashed out at the guilty tempo driver internally. But it was no use. He signaled that another was on its way. However, it wouldn’t be for another seven minutes. I counted the seconds and the minutes because there was only so much I could do.
When the bus came, it was very slow, clearly expecting to pick more passengers on the way. Once there, I couldn’t look out the window because it was painfully sunlit.
By this time, I wasn’t thinking about how it was ‘I’ who was seeing a problem in everything. I was still obsessed with counting the minutes till I got to work, hoping that I wouldn’t be late. After a little while, I thought about how I didn’t have the perfect change for the bus-fare. I thought about how I had so much to do but I was still stuck, somewhere.
I thought about how we should start using scented candles at home. An old packet we had was stuck within a box for its dear life. Parents and I squabbled over it. I thought about how my shirt was ruined and smelly because it was barely 9 am (thank god, maybe I could still make it in time) but was so hot. I thought about how I looked, how my hair was all over the place, and my hands were touching the sweat and who-knows-what of so many people during commute. I thought about how I hadn’t felt this way since 2015, or maybe even 2016, when I was working at another place and was equally swamped by inane things like that and how, even two years later, I struggled to break free from them.
Then I hit my head on the side of the bus, because thank you roads in Kathmandu.
Then I stopped.
Just something that a friend once told me made me put things in perspective.
I can wash my hands later. It’s okay to be late sometimes. Scented candles can be dealt when I get home. The conductor will have change.
And they weren’t lies. Not really.
I can breathe again. Meanwhile, let me enjoy this hip track that the driver is kind enough to play for his (and everyone’s) amusement.
I’m sure the weekend will be fine.