A Man At The Crossroad

By Rajeshwari Bhaduri

The city is hot when I step out of the convenience store, notions of breezes and air-conditioners merely wispy winter-dreams. My bag of ice cream gathers perspiration as I come to a stop by the pavement, waiting for the lights to change colours. Around me it is a proper crowd: kids shifting on their feet, college students curled into phones, corporate workers glancing down at expensive wristwatches and itching to cross the road, regardless of vehicles.

Impatience begets death, I think, before shaking myself out of it.

It has been a long month.

When once my freezer used to spill over with desserts, the ice-pops in my bag are my first meager collections of summer this year. Court hearings and police investigations hardly leave time for ice cream. Property dealings and funeral arrangements hardly care for summer.

“Oh, excuse me,” the man says before bumping into me rather painfully, and I glance up at the sky.

It has been a long month.

“Mom, mom, when will we cross the road?” A boy, hardly older than five, bouncing on his tiptoes.

“Soon, darling,” says the mother, before turning to whisper to her companion: “At this rate, we’re not going anywhere. Do you see how they change the lights just when it’s about to turn red?”

“I know, but can you blame them?” her companion is needlessly loud. “I heard there was a big accident here, a while back. Some reckless truck driver ran over a poor girl. Of course the police are being alerter.”

“Oh,” says the mother. A few others look startled.

I blink down to where my ice cream has started to melt onto the asphalt. It feels like the man who bumped into me is boring holes into my head, but this is normal.

It is normal to walk down a street and feel a thousand eyes following me.

Normal before was different: normal before was skipping feet and swinging hands and the wind in my hair. Normal before was my sister— the sweet, kind thing— hollering after me to look both ways before crossing the road, are you a child? Normal before was cool summers and warm winters and hands tangled together whenever we stepped out of the house.

Normal before bled away on this very crossroad a month ago. Normal before is dead today.

“Sad business,” beside me the man murmurs, shaking his head. “Very, very sad.”

I spare him a glance: short, hunched over, voice heavy with the weight of age. A dark cap over a shiny bald head, the rest of his old form drowning in an overcoat. Does he not feel the summer? I wonder, trying to pretend I am not staring. Does he not know of sunstroke? Does he simply not care?

So many people do so many things when they simply do not care.

“Oh! Finally!”

I look up just in time to see the lights flicker from green to red, the pedestrian lights blinking safe, safe, safe. Cars zoom to a stop as if majorly inconvenienced. A large truck looms some distance away. As the crowd stirs, I hurriedly start walking.

“Sad business,” the man is still standing on the pavement, looking at me. “Very, very sad.”

A thousand eyes follow me down the street. His eyes burn me.

I am almost afraid he is going to follow me home. Hastily, I throw a glance behind; there is a cab near the pavement, and he is climbing into it. As I finally cross the road, the cab gives a loud honk and drives down into the traffic.

I walk back home hoping my ice cream has not melted completely.

—

Three days later, a letter finds me in my apartment.

I am on my balcony enjoying a coffee, staring at the envelope that has no name, no stamp, no sender’s address. Hand-delivered, but the guard could not tell me who. I tear into it with careful fingers; the paper is long and neatly folded, a short body written in blue, loopy scrawl.

‘Dear Shruti’s Sister,

I believe it was pure coincidence that had me meeting you again, though I’m sure you never noticed me at all. I was there, you see, that day— I was buying ice-cream for my grandson (turns five this year, the sweet thing) when I saw you push your sister into the middle of the road and let her get trampled under the tires of my son’s truck. Yet another coincidence, I presume: but with a single shove, you managed to tear apart my entire family. I have no evidence against you, nothing that can prove your crime— but as someone who might as well be your grandfather, I sincerely hope you fall in the road and die the very same way. I shall never contact you again. May your sister’s soul rest in peace.

Yours sincerely,

A Man at the Crossroad’

Unblinking, I re-read the letter, once, twice, thrice. Finally, with a trembling hand, I tear it into a thousand pieces, sprinkle them over the waste bin, and return to my coffee.

By Rajeshwari Bhaduri