The Last Bus Home - By C. M. Meera

Written By: C. M. Meera

Category: Short Story

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

The artistic prowess of C. M. Meera shines through in the evocative short story, "The Last Bus Home." Submitted to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this piece delves into the complexities of life, transformation, and the subtle power of everyday kindness. As we embark on this literary journey, we are invited to reflect upon the underlying humanity that often goes unnoticed in our daily lives.

About the Work

"The Last Bus Home" is a profound exploration of the human condition, capturing the subtle shifts in consciousness that can lead to significant personal transformation. Through vivid imagery and poignant narrative, C. M. Meera crafts a compelling tale of introspection and compassion. The story's central theme hovers around the quiet yet powerful force of benevolence nestled within ordinary lives, urging readers to recognize and celebrate these silent acts of courage and kindness.

The Last Bus Home

Original Submission by C. M. Meera

The Last Bus Home

The 8:40 bus in the city to Kalippur never came on schedule.

Each evening, when the sun was setting behind half-built flats, the depot was crowded with the wary shuffle of people, schoolteachers holding their notebooks with marks, workers wiping the dust out of their palms, women taking tiffin carriers and vegetable bags.

One of them was Suresh Menon, forty-eight, clerk in a private company and a lifetime viewer of the world.

He never changed his seat, always sat in the same place in the same window, first row, left side. It shook most, but it gave him two indulgences; a perspective of the world with a passing, and some little, secret quiet.

Twenty years had been spent in this bus dragging him up and down the same streets and across the same fields--the same banyan tree, which was stretching itself to the highway like a man could hear the approaching engines. Nevertheless, in the recent past, everything was a little different. The trees are little, the faces are more in a rush, the air is more clogged with exhaustion.

On the evening when Suresh got into it he saw a young female standing close by the post of the conductor with a schoolbag in her arms. Smoke of dust grayed her arm. She looked around for a seat.

He rose.

"Please, sit here."

She hesitated. "No, uncle, I'll get down soon."

But she didn't. She waited, until the bus had thinned, and then sat near the man.

"You teach somewhere?" Suresh asked.

She nodded. "Government school. My initial assignment - a small village, around Palakkad.

He smiled. "My wife was a teacher too."

The girl's voice softened. "It's hard, uncle. The roof is leaking, kids are walking miles and some do not even have notebooks. But... something seemed like I am doing something that is important.

Suresh heard, and had an inclination to believe what she told him. He used to believe in the same faith, he had it when he came to the office and thought that he would do good, make a difference. Several years of small politics and empty regulations had muffled that fire.

At the next stop, she rose.

"This is me," she said.

He saw her get off, and her figure fading away in the evening haze.

At home, the power was turned off when he got there. His wife, Leela, was in the verandah fanning herself with a newspaper.

"You're late again," she said.

"Traffic," he replied. "And I met a young teacher. Reminded me of you."

Eagerly Leela smiled, but without looking up. She had retired out of the teaching field many years ago, when their son went out to foreign lands. Her days now were days of silent praying, of cooking and half-hearted television.

At dinner-time Suresh ascended to the terrace. The streetlights were dimly flicking down below, weary fireflies. He contemplated the girl, her tugged-out eyes, her dumb faith. Something about her remained, and bothered him.

He recalled another ride on the bus decades earlier that he was the same age (just married with the same type of hope). Everything then was about progress. All this was now movement directionless.

The following morning the news came out.

A young schoolteacher was assaulted in the vicinity of Palakkad; and her bag was stolen by thieves.

Suresh stood immobile and watched her picture on the T.V.

It was her.

There was an odd piercing guilt he experienced, like his task was to protect something delicate and yet he had not done it.

He haunted all day at work by her face. The office sketched of bonuses and he thought of her classroom - the broken roof, her little faces, waiting on her voice.

He was on the same bus home on that evening.

It was the roadman screaming, and “the bus to Kalippur!THE LAST BUS”. But nothing seemed like that. The old road appeared empty even through its old path.

Days passed. The news melted away giving way to newer news. Yet Suresh could not let go.

He started to observe things that he previously had his eyes closed on- a child begging in front of the signal, a sweeper shunned by a tea stall, and a co-worker ridiculed by his accent.

One day the manager gave him a file in the afternoon. Sign here, we are closing down the staff canteen. Not profitable."

Suresh hesitated. But what about where the workers will eat?

The manager shrugged. "Not our concern."

Something in him snapped.

He refused to sign.

The act cost him a warning letter and a week of pay though he felt relieved nearly as though he were free. It was the first time in years that he had thought of his conscience and not of his comfort.

Leela noticed the change. you were not like that, you used not to be, she said.

He smiled. "Maybe I should have been."

He had not confided to her about the girl, but at times, in his dreams, he could see her standing before a black board, the sun shining through the roof, her voice monotonous, her pupils bent on her, as though the world was relying on what she was saying.

A heavy rain fell in a month after that and flooded the town.

The bus was cancelled and Suresh remained behind to assist passengers who were left behind at the depot. He purchased tea to two migrant workers who were shivering in wet clothes, gave out his umbrella to an old woman.

And as he at last started to walk home through knee-deep water, he watched a small boy weeping in a broken street-light.

"What happened, mole?"

My mother... fell... stammered the boy, and pointed to one of the huts half-submerged in the dark.

Suresh ran in without a thought. One of the women lay fainted along the floor with the water creeping up over her. He carried her to a cot and summoned assistance and remained there until the ambulance came.

In the hospital, the physician responded that she was all right. You did the right thing."

It was early in the morning, and Suresh was standing by the window, when the rain had stopped, the first light fell upon the wet city.

Something in him unclenched.

The reason why it was redemption to save a stranger he did not know, but it was.

During the weeks which followed he transformed.

He raised his voice during office meetings, in neighbourhood fights, even at one time when a male passenger harassed a female passenger at a bus stop. He never screamed, just rocked-- like the old banyan by the road that never bent and never broke.

Others derided him - "Menon sir become social worker!

But others began listening.

Leela, too, saw it. You are different now, you know, one evening she said.

Perhaps I had ceased to wait until somebody does something, he said.

Then one year afterwards, in the newspaper, there was an insignificant article:

A country school was named after Miss Anjali - the young teacher who died in service.

Suresh has read it twice, and then cut out the clipping and put in his diary.

The 8:40 was again late that evening.

He sat down before the window as usual. On the outside the evening had grown bluer and bluer.

A young man on the other side of the aisle gave his seat to an old woman.

A small act. Ordinary. Yet it made Suresh smile.

He considered all the invisible individuals such as himself, silent, decent, with their personal little moral decisions in day to day life.

Perhaps that was the actual transformation of the world, not the slogans or revolutions, but the people who did not want to turn their heads.

The driver sounded the whistle. The omnibus clanked to action, driving through the gloom with Headlights.

The fields were blurring in preparation to pass and Suresh leant back with his eyes half-closed.

He did not think of destinations anymore.

Of the journey only--and the silent manliness it required to be benign.

And that was all sometimes, he felt.

The whistle again blew. The bus clanked to movement, Headlights steaming through the foggey dark.

Suresh leaned against the window, and he saw shadows pass by, the fields, the wandering dog, the banyan tree, bending in ready submission towards its goal. The world seemed both weak and tolerant.

He remembered all those years of waiting - to find systems to change, people to act, life to give meaning. But maybe meaning was never given, it always had to be created, in little gestures, mute denials and the heart to care when one would prefer not to do it.

The rain resumed, weak and doubtful. The laughter of a child came out of the front seat.

Suresh smiled. Thankfulness--that unspoken realization of his life, of his continued existence, of the fact of his being still able to feel--fill him.

The next day he did not know, neither did he know whether anything he did was really important in the great scurrying world. But he was aware that he was getting transformed, not into a new person, but into a more awake person.

The bus moved along the blackened road and he believed that the human race was still breathing somewhere, in the muffled undulation of common men who preferred benevolence to apathy, and he was imperceptibly weak, and wavering, and still alive.

And that might be all, he said to himself.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the art of storytelling and poetic expression. It brings together creative minds from all walks of life, offering them a stage to share their narratives and connect with a global audience. This competition is a testament to Hashtag Kalakar's commitment to fostering literary talent and nurturing a vibrant community of writers and poets.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to C. M. Meera for sharing "The Last Bus Home" with us. Your participation in the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches our platform and inspires us all to look deeper into the nuances of human life. We appreciate your contribution and the thoughtful reflections your story provokes.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.