The Window Seat

Chapter 5: The Dream

After the first fight, they became more careful. Not careful like strangers. Careful like people who know that what they have is delicate.

Aakay stopped getting jealous so openly. Isha stopped calling other boys nice in front of him. They added a new, unspoken rule: if one of them had to talk to someone else for notes or work, they would tell the other one in advance. Rahul asked for DBMS notes.Anjali asked for my bus pass.Small updates. Big trust.

It was a Thursday. The last lecture was free. The professor was absent. Outside, Ludhiana was dark at 2 PM. Clouds were heavy. The kind of clouds that factory workers look at and think will it rain? Will the shift get over early?

Let's go to the library, Isha said. I have to submit an assignment.

The college library was on the third floor. Old, quiet, with two big windows that showed the whole city. From there you could see the cycle factory where Aakay's father worked. You could see the main road where Isha's father drove his bus.

They sat in the corner. Not second row, window side. This was a different window. Bigger.

Isha opened her laptop. It was a second-hand laptop her father had bought after saving for six months. The 'A' key was broken. She had put a small sticker on it.

Aakay was watching her type. She was making a small PowerPoint. Title: My Dream Job.

What is your dream?he asked.

Isha stopped typing. She looked outside at the city. At the factory smoke. At the buses.

My dream is very small, she said. I want a job where I don't have to stand in a bus for two hours. A job where I can sit in an office with AC. Where my father doesn't have to say Beta, adjust kar le. I want to earn 40,000 per month. So I can give 20,000 to my father and tell him Papa, you don't have to drive the 8 AM to 8 PM route anymore. You can take the 8 AM to 2 PM route only.

She said it simply. Like she was reading a grocery list. But Aakay felt his chest tighten.

That was the dream of every bus driver's daughter. Not a big house in Canada. Not an iPhone. Just less work for her father.

What about you? she asked.

Aakay looked at the factory chimney from the window. His father worked there. Twelve hours. Standing. Making cycle parts. His hands had black marks that never went away, even after washing with soap.

My father has worked in that factory for 19 years, Aakay said, pointing. He started when he was 20. He still gets Rs. 18,000 salary. He makes 400 cycle chains per day. He knows every machine's sound. My mother says he talks in his sleep sometimes Chain tight kar, chain tight kar .

He paused.

My dream is to buy him a small shop. A mobile repair shop. He is very good with machines. He can repair anything. If he has his own shop, he doesn't have to listen to a supervisor. He can sit. He can come home at 5 PM, not 8 PM. He can eat dinner with us, not alone after heating the food.

Silence.

Outside, it started to rain. Ludhiana rain is not romantic. It is muddy. It mixes with factory smoke and makes everything grey.

40,000 is not a big dream, Isha, Aakay said softly. A mobile shop is not a big dream either. But for our families, even small dreams feel like luxury. Like we said before, love is a luxury. Dreams are also luxury.

Isha looked at him. Her eyes were a little wet. But she was smiling.

Then let's share this luxury also, she said. Like tiffin sharing. Let's share our dreams.

She opened a new slide in her PowerPoint. Wrote on it in big letters:

ISHA + AAKAY - DREAM PLAN

She wrote two points:

1. Get placed in same company after BCA. Even if salary is low, we will go together.

2. Save money. Isha will pay for her father's early retirement from long route. Aakay will open a small shop for his father.

Aakay laughed. This is a business plan?

No. This is our future plan. My father always says if you want to return safely, always take the return ticket in advance. Same with dreams. If you want your dream to return to you, you have to plan in advance.

Just like she gave him a return bus ticket on day one, she was now giving him a return ticket for their dreams.

Aakay took the laptop and typed a third point:

3. No matter what family says, no matter what world says, we will keep sharing tiffin, window seat, bus tickets, and now, dreams.

The rain was getting heavier. The library was getting darker. The librarian switched on the yellow lights.

In that yellow light, with the sound of rain on the tin roof, with the factory and the bus route visible from the window, two common people from middle class families made a very uncommon promise.

It was not I love you. They never said that. For them, I love you was too costly, too filmy.

Their I love you was different. It was I will share my dream with you.

Isha saved the file. File name: Sharing_Dreams.pptx. She saved it in both her laptop and Aakay's pen drive.

Now if my laptop breaks, your pen drive still has our dream, she said.

Aakay held the pen drive tightly. It was a small, black, 16GB pen drive he had got for free in a college fest. Now it felt like the most expensive thing he owned.

Because it had their dream inside.

That evening, they took the 3:30 PM bus again. But this time, they were not just going home. They were going home with a plan. A small, middle class, very real plan.

The bus conductor came. Tickets.

Isha smiled and took out two tickets. As usual, she had taken them in advance.

But this time, she said something new.

Two return tickets, bhaiya. One for today, one for our future.

The conductor didn't understand. He gave the tickets.

Aakay understood. He kept his ticket safe. Not in his pocket. In his wallet. Where he kept important things.

Outside, Ludhiana city was wet. The factory lights were on. The buses were still running, late due to rain.

Inside the bus, second row, window side, two BCA students were sitting, sharing an earphone, watching their small dream PowerPoint again and again, while the rain hit the window glass.

Even if the families don't understand yet. Even if the world says BCA students should only think about coding, not about dreams.

For Roll No. 22 and 23, this was enough. A shared tiffin was now a shared future.