The Shield (971 words)

Chinnadurai had been driving this route for five years, and he still despised it. The narrow roads wound through crowded slums, where broken streetlights flickered uselessly. The air reeked of cheap alcohol from the two liquor shops along the way. Drunks boarded the bus at all hours, hurling slurred insults, pestering other passengers, and occasionally getting violent. Worse still, this was a pickpocket’s paradise, with thieves slipping in and out of the crowds, their crimes unnoticed or ignored.

Once, Chinnadurai had driven a different route—one that passed through clean, upscale neighbourhoods. However, after an unfortunate accident, management had reassigned him here as a form of punishment. Not that it mattered. A bus was a bus, and his job was to get people where they needed to go.

His conductor, Vasanth Paul, was a good-hearted young man, eager but inexperienced. He could handle fare disputes and the occasional drunk, but when it came to real trouble, it was Chinnadurai who had to step in. Still, no matter how many times they tried to keep order, the one thing they couldn’t stop was pickpocketing.

They knew who the thieves were. Everyone did. But no one dared confront them. The pickpockets operated under the protection of a powerful gang, and those who crossed them—drivers, conductors, or even passengers—paid the price. Stories circulated of bus workers who had spoken up, only to be ambushed after hours, their injuries serving as a warning to others.

And the police? They shrugged and said, “If there’s no official complaint, there’s nothing we can do.”

That evening, around 7 PM, the bus was packed as usual. The heat, sweat, and impatience of the crowd made the air thick with tension. As Chinnadurai steered through traffic, he saw them—four men slipping into the bus at the front and rear. The usual gang.

He kept his eyes on the road, but his grip on the wheel tightened. Something was about to happen.

It didn’t take long.

A woman’s terrified scream cut through the noise.

“Oh my God! My bag—someone snatched my bag! Please, help me!”

Heads turned. The bus fell into a brief, stunned silence. Then murmurs spread, passengers looking around uneasily. Some whispered to each other, but no one moved.

Chinnadurai’s jaw clenched. It was happening again.

“Driver, stop the bus!” someone shouted.

He didn’t. Instead, he pressed his foot on the accelerator.

The woman’s voice was shaking. “It had my life’s savings—jewels I bought for my daughter’s wedding. I took a loan… If I don’t get it back, the marriage will be cancelled. Please! Someone help me!”

Chinnadurai turned his head slightly, raising his voice.

“Whoever took the bag, return it now.” He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, “She is my sister. The wedding is for my niece. I will not ignore this. If the bag isn’t returned, this bus will stop only at the police station.”

A ripple of unease spread through the bus. The thieves had counted on the usual silence, the usual fear. This wasn’t what they had expected.

Two of them pushed forward, moving toward the driver’s seat.

“Our stop is here,” one of them snapped. “Open the doors.”

Chinnadurai didn’t even glance at them. “I already told you. No one is getting off until the bag is returned.”

The man’s face twisted in anger. In one swift motion, he pulled out a penknife and stabbed Chinnadurai in the shoulder.

Gasps filled the bus. Someone screamed.

Pain shot through Chinnadurai’s arm, but his hands never left the wheel. His vision blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to stay steady. He had driven this bus through potholes, storms, and riots—he wasn’t about to lose control now.

The passengers snapped out of their shock. Some lunged at the attacker, wrestling him to the ground. Others blocked the exits, stopping the rest of the gang from escaping.

Through the chaos, Chinnadurai kept driving. Blood soaked through his uniform, but he ignored it. Just a little further.

The bright lights of the police station appeared up ahead. With one final effort, he swung the bus into the compound and hit the brakes.

Within seconds, officers rushed out. The thieves were dragged off the bus, their protests drowned out by the shouts of angry passengers. Somewhere in the scuffle, the missing bag was found—tossed carelessly to the floor in a last-ditch attempt to avoid being caught.

As Chinnadurai sat on a bench inside the station, an officer pressed a cloth to his bleeding shoulder. He winced but waved off any fuss. He’d had worse.

The woman approached him, clutching her recovered bag. Tears welled in her eyes as she folded her hands in gratitude.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But… why did you say I was your sister?”

Chinnadurai looked at her, then at the officers escorting the criminals away.

“These men are part of a larger gang,” he said. “They don’t forget. If I openly fought them, they’d come after me later.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “But saying you’re my sister makes it personal, and you are my shield.  It makes them hesitate. Maybe it’ll keep me safe. Maybe not.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Any woman in distress on my bus… is my sister.”

The woman wiped her eyes, overcome with emotion.

Vasanth, who had been watching in awe, stepped forward. He had seen many things on this route—drunken brawls, thefts, threats—but tonight, he had witnessed something else.

As Chinnadurai stood up, Vasanth fell into step beside him.

“Sir… I won’t be afraid anymore,” he said quietly. “Not after today.”

Chinnadurai gave him a tired smile. “Good.”

Then, without another word, he walked back to his bus.

He still had passengers to drop off.