Shanaya
I was just about to get on that bus with my best friend. Just like every day. But that evening, my laziness won. I thought, “Why not just catch a rickshaw and get home faster?” It felt like nothing at the time—a silly, harmless decision.
I had no idea that my apathy would be what kept me safe.
Bus No. 312. The one we always took to Palghar for our classes.
That Saturday night, at exactly 9:00 PM, something happened on that bus—something so horrific, I can barely speak of it without trembling.
My friend, Simran, was on that bus alone.
She couldn’t have possibly known that her daily commute would become a waking nightmare.
It was all so ordinary. So routine. Until suddenly—it wasn’t.
A coincidence spiraled into catastrophe.
She would later regret many things from that day—especially her decision to board early, influenced by a boy who’d betrayed her trust time and again.
Simran
I stopped by the shop next to our classes. I grabbed a cold drink to sip on the way. A small act of defiance, maybe.
I remember spotting someone from my society on the bus and panicking—What if they told my mom?
She’s a nutritionist. Strict. Disapproving of junk food.
In my mind, her disappointment was the biggest threat at that moment.
And so I quickly opened the bottle.
But something was off.
The smell. The sting. The weight of something not quite right.
Then—
A jolt. Not from behind, but straight in front of me. Someone bumped me.
The contents of the bottle spilled over me.
Then came the pain.
Sharp. Blinding. Burning.
My neck. My hand. My skin screamed, and I screamed louder.
It wasn’t a cold drink.
It was a cleaning solution—acid and phenyl—used for scrubbing public toilets.
The shopkeeper had handed me the wrong bottle. It looked exactly like a Thums Up, dark and familiar. I didn’t think twice. I was in a rush.
Shanaya’s Reflection
That incident shattered me.
It made me question everything. Not just what happened, but why it happened.
Whose fault was it?
• The boyfriend who lured her onto that early bus?
• The shopkeeper who gave her the wrong bottle?
• Her mother, whose dietary rules made Simran drink it in haste and fear?
• The stranger who accidentally bumped into her, triggering it all?
And then the most haunting question of all:
Should I blame myself for being relieved that I wasn’t there, for feeling safe when she wasn’t?
That night took more than skin and comfort.
It left behind guilt.
And a thousand unanswered questions.
