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. Her bangles clinked softly as she moved, pouring tea into steel cups with the grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times, and would do it a thousand more.

She looked at me—not with curiosity, but with the practiced kindness of someone who knows that every stranger carries a story, and every story deserves a cup of tea. 

I asked her, half out of guilt and half out of wonder, “Tai, how do you manage to work all night?”

She didn’t flinch. Her smile was gentle, like the first light of dawn on a tired face.

“During the day, half my customers are truckers who drive at night,” she said, her voice steady, like the rhythm of a lullaby. “If I close at night, how will my children’s schooling be paid for?”

She gestured toward a corner of the stall, where two children lay curled on a wooden bench. A boy and a girl, perhaps nine and eleven. Their school bags were tucked under their heads like pillows, their limbs tangled in sleep. The girl’s dupatta had slipped off from her face, revealing a forehead creased in dreams. The boy’s hand clutched a half-open book, as if even in sleep, he refused to let go of learning.

“They sleep here every night,” she said, her eyes lingering on them like a prayer. “I want my children to never have to work all night. If they have to stay awake, it should only be for their books.”

Her words fell like a stone into the still pond of my thoughts. I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there, sipping the tea she handed me, its warmth curling around my fingers like comfort and shame.

The tea was strong, laced with ginger and something else—perhaps resilience. It tasted like the kind of strength that doesn’t shout, but endures. Around us, the highway hummed with the quiet desperation of movement. The trucks kept coming, their drivers stopping for a quick bite, exchanging nods with the woman, calling her “Tai” with the familiarity of routine.

She served them with the same grace, her hands moving like poetry—folding parathas, pouring tea, wiping the counter. Her stall was not just a place of food, but of refuge. A temple of survival built on the altar of sacrifice.

I watched her, and I thought of all the things we celebrate—startups, billion-dollar valuations, glossy headlines about “India shining.”
We applaud innovation in glass towers, pitch decks that promise disruption, and founders who speak in TED Talk cadence.
We count unicorns, not the sleepless mothers who build futures with parathas and patience.
We romanticize hustle culture, but ignore the kind that brews tea at 2 AM so a child can learn multiplication tables.
We chase metrics—growth, scale, reach—while she chases nothing but the next sunrise, hoping it brings her children closer to a life where dreams aren’t rationed.
Her stall had no logo, no funding round, no press release.

But it had impact—measured not in downloads or IPOs, but in the quiet dignity of two children sleeping under a tarpaulin roof, their heads resting on books instead of burdens.

And I realized: if India is truly shining, it’s because of women like her—who light the night not with electricity, but with endurance.

And I realised my privilege. But here, in this dimly lit stall, was the real backbone of the country. A woman who traded sleep for schooling, comfort for hope. She didn’t wear a cape, but she carried the weight of dreams on her shoulders.

We spoke more, in fragments. She told me about her husband, who had passed away five years ago in a road accident. “He was a truck driver,” she said, her voice steady. “This stall was his idea. After he died, I didn’t know what else to do. So I kept it going.”

She told me about her daughter, who wanted to be a teacher. I could see the radiance on her tired face. “She says she wants to teach children who can’t afford school. I tell her, first become one who can afford to dream.”

Her son, she said, was quiet. Then her eyes lit up. “He reads a lot. Doesn’t talk much. But when he does, it’s like listening to the wind—soft, but it moves you.”

I asked her if she ever got tired.

She laughed, a sound that felt like rain on parched soil. “Of course. But tiredness is a luxury. I’ll rest when they don’t need me anymore.”

The bulb flickered above us, casting shadows that danced like ghosts of forgotten comforts. The highway stretched on, indifferent to our conversation, but the night had changed. It felt fuller, heavier, like it had absorbed the weight of her words.

I looked at the children again. Their faces were serene, untouched by the burden their mother carried. And I realized something that stayed with me long after the bus finally arrived.

Privilege isn’t just money or city life. Privilege is being able to sleep peacefully at night, knowing you don’t have to sell tea at 2 AM so your kids can study. Privilege is not having to choose between exhaustion and education.

As I boarded the bus, I turned back one last time. She was wiping down the counter, her movements slow but deliberate. The children stirred in their sleep, the boy’s book slipping from his hand. She picked it up, placed it aside, and sat beside them for a moment, her eyes closed.

Maybe she was praying. Maybe she was just resting. Or maybe, for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to dream too.

Her words kept echoing in my mind like a mantra:
“If they have to stay awake, it should only be for their books.”

And somewhere on NH-48, under a flickering bulb and a sky full of silence, a mother kept the night alive—so her children could one day chase the dawn.