What did Harish NOT know about the old woman?

Every morning at five forty, the first bus from the depot stopped at the corner of Station Road, and every morning the same old woman got on with a steel tiffin carrier and a folded umbrella, whatever the weather.

Harish, the driver, had been on the route for nine years. He knew that she worked in the kitchen of a hospital across the river, that she sat in the second seat on the left, and that she said "Ram Ram" when she got on and "Jai Shri Krishna" when she got off. He did not know her name.

One Monday she was not at the corner.

Harish waited, which he was not supposed to do. He waited one minute, then two. A passenger in the back began to complain. Harish pulled away, but he drove the rest of the route more slowly than usual, looking at every stop as if she might be at the wrong one.

On Tuesday she was back, with a bandage on her wrist.

"I slipped," she said, before he could ask. "Only a sprain."

Harish nodded, and took her tiffin carrier and put it on the seat for her, which in nine years he had never done.

"You waited yesterday," she said. "The conductor on the second bus told me. You made them all late."

"Only two minutes," said Harish.

"Two minutes," she said, sitting down, "is a long time to be missed."