Day 001: Fog at the Bus Stand

The year begins the way most mornings begin here: with someone in the house already awake, moving quietly so the rest of the rooms can pretend to sleep for a few more minutes.

Priya hears it before she opens her eyes—the scrape of a steel tumbler on the counter, the splash of water, the faint clink of bangles. Then the kettle, stubborn as always, takes its time deciding to sing.

She lies still for a moment and watches the ceiling fan, unmoving in the winter. The air is cold enough that her nose feels sharp when she breathes in. Outside, the fog presses itself against the window like an extra curtain.

“Uth ja,” her mother calls from the kitchen. Not loud, not angry. Just the ordinary command of morning.

Priya swings her legs off the cot and slips her feet into her sandals. The floor is colder than she expects. She pauses at the doorway and looks out at the courtyard. The neem tree is a gray smudge. The hand pump looks like it’s been sketched in pencil.

In the kitchen, Sunita is already at work—tea leaves blooming in milk, ginger crushed with the back of a spoon, sugar measured by instinct. The smell is immediate and comforting, like a blanket that knows your name.

“New year,” Priya says, mostly to herself.

Her mother smiles without looking up. “Haan. New year. Same gas cylinder.”

Priya laughs, the sound small and surprising in the early hour.

Rakesh comes in from outside with a scarf wrapped around his neck. He smells of cold air and damp soil. He warms his hands near the stove, then reaches for the glass of tea Sunita places in front of him.

“Today you’ll go to Sharma Ji’s,” he says.

Priya already knows. There is always something that needs printing, copying, scanning, laminating—proof of this, proof of that—like life is a long line of documents trying to prove it’s real.

“What is it?” she asks.

“College form,” her father says, as if the words are both ordinary and delicate. “And your Aadhaar copy. Two passport photos also, if possible.”

Priya nods. She does not mention that she has only one good photo left—the one where her hair is behaving and her face looks calm—and that she has been saving it like a coin.

Neha appears at the doorway, wrapped in a shawl that makes her look smaller than she is. She squints at Priya.

“Will you bring those chips?” Neha asks, already bargaining.

“Which chips?” Priya asks.

“The blue one. The good one.”

Priya takes a sip of tea. The glass burns her fingers, the best kind of burn. “We’ll see,” she says.

Outside, the lane is quiet in a way it rarely is. It’s not silence exactly—there are still distant horns, a dog barking at nothing, the faint call of a vegetable seller testing his voice—but the fog smooths everything down. Even sound feels softer.

Priya wraps her sweater tighter and steps out. The air smells of wet earth and smoke from someone’s morning fire. A scooter goes past slowly, its headlight a pale circle in the gray.

At the bus stand, the world gathers itself again.

Buses arrive like sleepy animals, engines coughing. Conductors call out destinations that dissolve into the mist—Lucknow, Barabanki, somewhere else—words that sound like promises when you’re standing still.

Priya stands near the chai stall, hands tucked under her shawl, and watches people become silhouettes and then people again as they move closer.

“Subah-subah?” Chai Uncle says, sliding a glass toward her as if he has been expecting her.

She smiles. “Bas. Kaam hai.” Just. There’s work.

He grins at the answer the way adults do when they hear a young person try to sound serious. “New year ka kaam bhi same?”

“Same,” she agrees, and the two of them share the comfort of that: the world may change its calendar, but the bus stand still smells like diesel and tea.

The cyber shop is a few minutes away, next to a stationery place that sells both notebooks and small miracles—pens that write when you need them, glue that actually sticks, folders that make your papers feel important.

Sharma Ji’s shutter is half down. Priya can see him inside, moving slowly, like he is negotiating with the day.

“Sharma Ji,” she calls.

He looks up with the expression of a man who has been interrupted from a serious conversation with his own thoughts. Then he recognizes her and his face changes by a small degree.

“Arre, Priya. Aaj bhi?” he says.

Priya holds up the folded paper her father has given her, and her phone with the college link open. “Form,” she says.

Sharma Ji exhales like the form is personally responsible for the state of the nation. He pulls the shutter up a little more and gestures her in.

Inside, the shop smells of toner and dust. A ceiling fan turns lazily. A calendar from last year is still on the wall, the dates crossed out up to December as if someone stopped caring halfway through the month.

Priya sits on the plastic chair while Sharma Ji’s computer takes its time waking up. She opens her notebook and checks the list her father has written—Aadhaar, photo, fee receipt. Her handwriting in the margins is smaller: don’t forget to ask about last semester’s marksheet.

A WhatsApp ping lights up her screen.

It’s Sana.

Happy new year, Sana writes. Then, immediately: Are you going to town today?

Priya smiles at the speed with which celebration becomes logistics.

Bus stand abhi, Priya types back. *Sharma Ji ke yahan.

Sana sends a voice note. Priya presses play and holds the phone to her ear. Sana’s voice is bright and sleepy at the same time.

“Listen, if you go near the coaching lane, check if that new batch has started. The one with the discount poster. And don’t let Sharma Ji overcharge you, okay?”

Priya’s smile widens. She likes that Sana speaks the thoughts Priya keeps folded inside.

Sharma Ji finally prints the form with a dramatic whirr, as if the printer is performing a special service. The paper comes out warm. Priya touches it with her fingertips like it might disappear.

Outside again, the fog is thinning. The day is becoming itself.

On the way home, she stops at the small shop and buys the blue chips for Neha without announcing it to herself as a decision. Some choices are easier when you don’t name them.

Back in the courtyard, the neem tree looks a little more solid. Sunita is chopping vegetables for lunch, the knife moving with the calm confidence of someone who has done the same thing through many years, many calendars.

Rakesh takes the papers from Priya carefully. He reads the heading as if he is reading a prayer. Then he folds everything neatly and places it in the plastic folder.

“Achha,” he says. Good.

Priya pours herself water from the steel jug and drinks. The cold water tastes like the morning.

In the afternoon, she sits on the bed with her notebook open, trying to study while Neha scrolls beside her, pretending not to watch.

By evening, the sky clears completely. The fog is only a memory, like a dream you can’t fully explain.

Priya goes up to the roof for a few minutes. From here, the lights of the road look like a thin necklace. Somewhere, someone is playing a song loud enough that it reaches her as a muffled beat.

Her phone buzzes again.

Sana sends a photo: two paper cups of tea on a balcony, the caption simply: This year will be different.

Priya looks at the message for a long moment. The air is cold on her cheeks. The roof under her feet is familiar. The year is new, and yet it feels like a continuation rather than a beginning.

She types back:

Haan. Dekhte hain.

Yes. We’ll see.

And for now, that is enough.