The Passenger Seat

Ek moving car. Dashboard glow. Flyover par sirf streetlights aur door se aate trucks ki reflections. Sahil, 33, polo shirt mein, tense, one hand on steering wheel, doosri hand phone mount ke paas. Rearview mirror mein Omar, 35, dark hoodie aur spectacles mein, folded newspaper lap par.

SILENCE.

Destination confirm kar dijiye.

Haan. South Extension.

Traffic zyada nahi hai, par flyover pe speed thodi maintain karni padegi.

Aap ko speed ka pressure pasand nahi hai.

Sahil mirror mein dekhta hai.

Kya?

Aap jab nervous hote ho, steering wheel ko do baar squeeze karte ho. Abhi bhi kiya.

Aap astrologer ho ya passenger?

Dono nahi. Bas observe karta hoon.

Sahil phone mount par glance karta hai. Omar notice karta hai.

Phone silent pe hai.

Rides ke time distraction nahi rakhta.

Good habit.

Aapka dashboard camera bhi on hai.

Security ke liye.

Aur toll receipt? Left side, windshield ke neeche.

Sahil ka chehra tight.

Aap ko kaise pata?

Aap gaadi saaf rakhte ho. But paperwork kabhi kabhi chhup jaata hai.

Aap mujhe pehle se jaante ho kya?

Nahi.

Par aap mujhe jaise nahi jaante, waise main aapko kaafi dekh chuka hoon.

Kya bol rahe ho?

Aap raat ko zyada baat nahi karte. Phone wallpaper pe ek bachche ki photo hai—corner se crop ki hui. Aapki left wrist pe old watch tan line hai. Aur aapka air freshener cheap hai, isliye thoda headache deta hai.

Sahil ka grip tight.

Aap mera profile stalk kar rahe ho?

Profile nahi.

Life.

Stop this nonsense.

Nonsense tab hota hai jab cheezein milti nahi.

Tumhari ex-wife ke initials M.K. the. Aur tumne last month usko message bheja tha—delete kiya, but not before seeing.

Sahil ka face drain.

Bas.

Aur tumhare ghar ka third floor, right side window. Light kabhi kabhi 12:14 pe on hoti hai.

Kaun ho tum?

Ek passenger.

Nahi. Tum stalker ho. Ya koi prank.

Tumne us raat bhi aisa hi bola tha?

Sahil ka gaala sookh jaata hai.

Kaunsi raat?

Jab tumne ek aadmi ko road pe chhod diya tha.

Car mein sirf engine ka hum.

Maine kisi ko chhoda nahi.

Tumne rukna chaha tha. Phir nahi ruke.

Tumhe kya pata?

Mere bhai ko pata tha.

Usne tumhari car dekhi thi. Tumhari taang ka shake. Tumhara panic. Tumhara lie.

Sahil brakes ko halka touch karta hai.

Main us raat confuse tha. Sab kuch—

—tumne choose kiya.

Omar newspaper unfold karta hai. Ek old news clipping aur ek photo. Sahil ki saans atak jaati hai.

Yeh... yeh tumhe kahan se mila?

Police report se. Obituary se. Aur us bhai se jo tumhari story mein kabhi exist hi nahi karta tha.

Main us aadmi ko bachane ke liye—

—doosre ko chhod diya.

Silence.

Sahil dashboard camera ki red light ko dekhta hai.

Main dar gaya tha.

Haan.

Maine jhoot bola. Main— main socha tha ek life bach gayi, toh...

...toh ek death chhup jaayegi?

Sahil ka jaw tight.

Mujhe saza chahiye thi.

Mujhe saza nahi chahiye.

Mujhe sach chahiye tha.

Sahil gaadi ko side mein dheere karta hai. Flyover ki ek streetlight unke faces par padti hai.

Main us raat wapas nahi gaya.

Pata hai.

Maine statement badal diya.

Pata hai.

Maine—

Tumne choose kiya, Sahil. Bas itna sach tha.

Sahil ka haath kaanpta hai. Woh toll receipt dashboard par rakh deta hai.

Main ab kya karun?

Pehle ride complete karo.

Omar newspaper fold kar leta hai. Khamoshi.

Car phir aage badhti hai, flyover ke end ki taraf.