I take the last tram from Esplanade every night, the 11:40 to Shyambazar, because by then the buses smell of the whole day's sweat and the tram is nearly empty and I can think. For three months a woman has sat two rows ahead of me. Green sari, damp at the hem, as though she has walked through a rain that fell on no one else. She never turns. She gets down at the depot, past the last real stop, where the tracks end and the trams sleep.
I asked the conductor once why he never punched her ticket. He looked at the seat, then at me, and moved to the far end of the car without a word.
Tonight I followed her. Off the tram, across the dark yard, between the dead trams with their windows like blind eyes. At the wall where the tracks stop she turned, finally, and her face was ordinary and kind and afraid. You again, she said. You follow me every night. Please. What is it you want?
I opened my mouth and the conductor was there, lantern raised, speaking to her, not to me. Don't mind, sister. Bad stretch, this. A boy died here years back. Chased a lady off the last tram, went under the wheels. Some nights people feel him. Cold spot, two rows back.
She was already walking away, quick, not once glancing at the empty air where I stood.
I got back on the tram. I always get back on the tram. Two rows from the front, my seat, the hem of my trousers wet from a rain I cannot remember, waiting for a woman who is only trying to get home.