A Sip Of Resilience
The bus was late. Not fashionably late, not the kind of delay that invites mild irritation and a glance at the watch—but the kind that makes time feel like a puddle you’ve stepped into and can’t get out of. It was 1 AM on NH-48, and the highway stretched like a sleeping serpent under a moonless sky. Trucks rumbled past like tired beasts, their headlights slicing through the darkness, then vanishing into the void. I found myself at a roadside eatery—a modest stall stitched together with corrugated tin sheets and tarpaulin, its edges fluttering in the night breeze like the hem of a sari caught in motion. A single yellow bulb hung overhead, casting a halo of weary light on the cracked wooden counter. The air smelled of diesel, damp earth, and something warm—tea , perhaps, or the promise of it. Behind the counter stood a woman, her hair tied in a tight bun that spoke of discipline, not vanity. She wore a faded sari , the kind that had seen many monsoons and many midnights....