IX.

From the Road to Dharamshala

The Red Bus.

tail lights, sign boards, and sleeping passengers,

A darkness engulfing everything.

Everything except me. I'm here.

The black and white road rails with neon hazards,

trucks that ask to Keep Distance, to Blow Horn,

to just give a hint, before heading straight into them.

to everyone. except their own driver.

He's drunk. He's not here.

The closed liquor shops,

empty bottles, crushed cigarettes,

and the stories that lurk in their parking lot.

abandoned,

probably forgotten in the morning, With the first cup of tea.

Orphaned.

Except the headache,

it's still there.

It'll be there for a while.

Ayushmaan Mishra · 2026-06-02