Ravi had been a Bhopal school bus driver for over fifteen years. Every morning before dawn, he climbed into the worn leather seat of his yellow bus, checked the mirrors, and turned the key, the engine rumbling to life like an old friend waking up. The streets were still mostly quiet, the faint smell of incense from roadside temples mingling with the aroma of fresh jalebis being fried by sleepy vendors. This was his world — the route he knew by heart, the children who waited at familiar stops, and the rhythms of a city slowly stirring awake.
Ravi loved the routine. He liked the chatter of children filling the bus, their laughter and questions weaving into the fabric of his days. Over time, he’d learned their stories, their families, their dreams. He saw himself in them — once a poor boy from the outskirts of Bhopal, lucky enough to find steady work driving this bus, the lifeline that carried futures every morning and afternoon.
But today was different.
At the third stop, a girl stepped onto the bus. She was small, no more than seven, with tangled hair and wide eyes that darted nervously around. She wore a uniform that was similar but not quite the same as the others—her skirt a little longer, her shirt faded and a bit too big. The shoes she wore were new but looked heavy, slipping off her heels as she moved.
“Are you new here?” Ravi asked gently.
She nodded, barely whispering, “I’m Rina, I just joined the school.”
Ravi checked his list — Rina’s name was nowhere to be found. The other children were boarding in their usual groups, familiar with their stops. He hesitated, feeling a knot tightening in his chest.
“Do you have a transfer slip or something from the school?” he asked.
She shook her head, clutching a small, nearly empty bag close to her.
Ravi glanced at the clock on the dashboard — he needed to move on, but something about the girl unsettled him. Still, the bus had to keep moving. He gave her a small smile and said, “Alright, get settled. We’ll check with the school later.”
The bus rumbled forward, and the city slowly brightened with the first light of dawn. Ravi watched Rina sitting quietly by the window, her fingers nervously twisting a thread on her sleeve. She didn’t join the other children in their games or chatter. Something was off.
He remembered his own childhood — growing up poor, his mother working double shifts to send him to school, the sharp sting of loneliness when his older brother left home, promising to come back but never did. He’d hoped for a better life, and this job had been a blessing.
As the bus turned corners and picked up other children, Ravi’s unease deepened. Rina’s story wasn’t adding up. The way she avoided eye contact, the way she flinched when another boy accidentally bumped her—it reminded him of a scared animal, hiding but desperate.
At the next stop, a woman waved frantically from the sidewalk. “Ravi! Wait!” It was Mrs. Sharma, a teacher from the school. Ravi slowed and rolled down the window.
“This girl… she’s not on any class list,” she said, eyeing Rina suspiciously. “Are you sure she belongs here?”
“I don’t know,” Ravi admitted. “She said she’s new.”
Mrs. Sharma frowned, then whispered, “We’ve had reports of missing children lately. Be careful.”
The words hit Ravi like a punch. Missing children? Could this little girl be one of them?
He glanced at Rina, who sat frozen, staring out the window, her lips trembling. Something inside him clenched. He could turn back, report the matter, call the school and the police. But what if she was telling the truth and this was just a misunderstanding? He didn’t want to scare her more, but he also didn’t want to risk her safety.
Ravi pulled over at a small tea stall near the last stop and parked the bus. The children inside grumbled — it was late, and they wanted to get to school.
He took a deep breath and crouched beside Rina. “Rina, can you tell me where you live? Who should I call if you’re scared?”
She looked up, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t have anyone,” she whispered. “My mother… she’s gone.”
The bus driver’s heart twisted. He remembered his brother again — how easily a family could fall apart, how fragile childhood was.
Ravi made a decision. He couldn’t just drop her off and pretend everything was fine. But he also couldn’t abandon his route or frighten the other children.
“Listen,” he said softly, “I’m going to take you to the school office. They’ll help you. But if you need a safe place after that, I’ll try to help.”
Rina nodded, her small hand gripping his.
When the bus finally reached the school gates, Ravi spoke to the principal. The school staff immediately recognized the urgency. They called social workers and police while Ravi waited, the bus suddenly feeling emptier without the usual noise of children.
As the sun rose higher over Bhopal’s rooftops and temples, Ravi felt a mixture of relief and sadness. He had done what he could — but the city held many stories like Rina’s, hidden in plain sight.
Driving back home later that day, Ravi thought about his own brother and the chances he’d missed to reach out. He realized this little girl had reminded him of something deeper — the need for kindness, courage, and small acts that ripple into the future.
For a bhopal school bus driver, the route was more than just a line on a map. It was a journey through lives, fragile and intertwined.
And sometimes, the hardest turns were the ones you made before sunrise.
