"THE BRIDGE BETWEEN US"

Untitled Part 1

What was remarkable about the middle-aged man who requested a ride was his extreme ordinariness.

There was nothing about him that stood out—no distinctive features or striking clothing. He blended seamlessly into the background, an unassuming figure easily overlooked in a crowd. Yet in his unremarkable presence, there was a quiet, almost poignant depth, as if the weight of untold stories and burdens silently carried clung to him like a shadow.

He was thin, bespectacled, and carried an air of melancholy. His black trousers, worn and faded, hung loosely on his frail frame, as though they too had given up on trying to impress. His shirt, an unremarkable plaid, had long since lost its color, mirroring the faded spirit of the man who wore it. The fabric clung to him like a desperate plea for relevance, much like he seemed to be doing in a world that had long forgotten how to notice him.

"My car broke down. Could you please give me a lift to the other side of the bridge? I must meet someone urgently." His voice was soft, almost apologetic, as though he was asking for something far more than a simple favor.

The bridge in question was the Bandra-Worli Sea Link, a 5.6 km, 8-lane bridge that connected Bandra in the western suburbs of Mumbai to Worli in South Mumbai.

"Sure," said the driver of the Toyota, a man in his late thirties. He didn't think much of the request—just another small act of kindness in a city that thrived on fleeting connections.

They drove in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts. The hum of the car and the rhythmic pulse of the road beneath them filled the quiet, while the sunshine kissed the road ahead. The waves of the Arabian Sea shimmered in the distance, rising and falling with the strong wind, as if mirroring the unspoken turbulence within the passenger.

As they reached the midpoint of the bridge, the man made another entreaty. "Could you drop me off here?"

The driver glanced at him, incredulous. "Here? In the middle of the bridge?"

"Yes," the man replied, his voice tinged with a sorrow that caught the driver off guard. "I just remembered something. I don't need to go to the other side anymore."

There was something unsettling in his tone—a mix of defeat and resignation that sent a shiver down the driver's spine. But the driver, caught off guard, simply nodded and steered the car to the side of the road. He didn't know it then, but this voice, this moment, would haunt him for years to come.

The man stepped out of the car. His hand, extended in a gesture of thanks, was warm and sweaty. As the sun broke through a cloud, it illuminated his face—a face weathered by countless storms, etched with lines that spoke of sleepless nights and unspoken fears.

A seagull cried out overhead, its call lost in the roar of traffic as cars sped past. In the distance, the skyscrapers of Mumbai loomed against the afternoon sky, indifferent to the silent drama unfolding on the bridge.

Years later, the driver would chide himself for not asking the question that had burned in his mind but never passed his lips: "Why do you want to get down here? Is something wrong?"

The man turned and began to walk away, his figure growing smaller in the rearview mirror. The driver assumed he would be hitchhiking back, but a deep unease settled over him, as if he had just witnessed the end of something profound—a silent cry for help that he had failed to hear.

As the man walked, his thoughts swirled like a blistering tornado, each one more harrowing than the last. Just hours earlier, he had stared at the accounts of his failing business in his small, cramped office in Ghatkopar. The numbers had screamed at him, piercing his already frayed nerves.

The government tender he had pinned his hopes on had been rejected, shattering his last shred of optimism. Worse still, several consignments had been returned, each one a nail in the coffin of his dwindling enterprise. He had borrowed heavily from ruthless loan sharks to purchase raw materials, gambling everything on securing that order. But profits had become a distant memory, a cruel mirage that taunted him.

The loan sharks were coming tomorrow. Men of a different breed, they were impervious to tears or pleas. The only language they understood was that of hard cash. Fear gnawed at him, cold and relentless. If he failed to pay them, they wouldn't hesitate to harm him—or worse. He could already feel their cold eyes on him, their threats a dark shadow over his every step. Each moment brought him closer to an inevitable confrontation, and the terror of what awaited tightened its grip on his heart.

A car zipped past him, its horn blaring, missing him by inches. Panic surged through him—he was close to being hit. Was there a way out of this mess? He had already weighed his options, but none seemed feasible.

A long-forgotten memory of his father floated into his mind. During a severe drought in their village in Nashik, his father, a farmer, had stood in the parched fields, the soil cracked and thirsty for rain. The crops had withered, leaving their family of eight with little to eat. He remembered his father's sunburnt, lined face as he stared at the barren land, his eyes heavy with despair. But even then, his father had ruffled his son's hair and smiled, masking his worries with a strength that had seemed unbreakable.

That's what good fathers did—they masked their own fears and hardships for the sake of their children.

I'm sorry, Dad. I couldn't be a good father.

He reached the edge of the bridge, his heart pounding. Cars dodged, brakes squealed, and drivers cursed as they swerved to avoid him. He took out his cell phone, his hands trembling.

For a moment, he stared at the profile picture of his twenty-two-year-old son, taken during a trip to Goa. The young man's face was bathed in sunlight as he gazed out over the blue ocean, his smile radiant, full of life and promise.

I love you. You're a good son.

He made a WhatsApp video call. It didn't take long for his son to answer. The man's voice was calm as he asked after his son's well-being, but his eyes betrayed the storm within. Then, in a tone so gentle it broke his own heart, he told his son where he was and what he was about to do.

The son's voice shattered the calm, a desperate cry that echoed across the miles between them. "No! Dad, please—don't do it! Please!"

But the man was beyond hearing. The sound of his son's pleas faded into the background as he walked to the edge of the bridge, his final steps heavy with the weight of a life lived in quiet desperation.

The phone slipped from his grasp, clattering to the pavement as he looked out over the water. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the waves that lapped against the pillars of the bridge.

And then, with a final breath, he stepped off the edge.

For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. The world continued to move on around him—cars zipped past, seagulls cried out, and the city of Mumbai buzzed with life. But for the man, there was only silence, a quiet release from the burdens he could no longer bear.

As he fell, the driver of the Toyota, miles away by now, felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. A sense of profound loss settled over him, though he couldn't explain why. He glanced at the empty seat beside him, where the unremarkable man had sat just minutes earlier, and a pang of regret stabbed at his heart.

The driver would never forget that ride. It would haunt him for the rest of his days—a reminder of the fleeting moments in life where we are given a chance to see beyond the ordinary, to hear the silent cries of those around us, and perhaps, to change the course of a life.

But sometimes, we miss those moments. And when we do, we are left with only the echoes of what might have been.