Why did the bus stop?

The bus broke down at a quarter past midnight, on a stretch of highway with no lights and no town for twenty kilometres. The driver climbed out, lifted the bonnet, looked inside for a long time, and climbed back in.

"Two hours," he announced. "Maybe three. A mechanic is coming from Hubli."

Meera, who was nineteen and travelling alone for the first time, pulled her bag closer and tried to look like someone who did this every week. The man across the aisle, who had been snoring since Dharwad, woke up, looked around, and began unwrapping a cloth parcel.

"Chakli?" he said, holding it out to her.

Every warning she had ever heard about strangers came back to her at once. She shook her head politely. The man shrugged and offered the parcel to the family in front instead, who took several.

Somewhere in the second hour, the family's baby began to cry, and would not stop. The mother was exhausted. It was the snoring man who took the baby, walked it slowly up and down the dark aisle, and sang to it in a low, tuneless voice until it fell asleep on his shoulder.

When he came back, Meera held out her hand.

"Is there any chakli left?" she asked.

He smiled, and gave her the last two pieces. They were, she decided, the best chakli she had ever eaten.