The Right Choice (845 words)

Meera’s two-wheeler had stubbornly refused to start that morning despite her repeated attempts. As she had to rush to be at the office by 10 am for an important meeting, she ran to the bus stop. Autos fully occupied passed by at high speed, with her anxiety growing by the minute. Not one three-wheeler stopped.

The sky was cloudy and slightly dark with the possibility of rain. Reluctantly, she boarded the bus as anything was better than being drenched.

There was barely room to stand. Men stood around her on all sides, their bodies close, their breath heavy. The smell was oppressive, but she had no choice. She clutched her bag to her chest and tried to shrink into herself.

“Where to?” the conductor barked.

She told him her stop. He tore a four-rupee ticket and shoved it into her hand.

She extended a fifty-rupee note. “I’m sorry, I don’t have change.”

His voice turned sharp. “No change. Give exact amount or get down.”

“I only have one two-rupee coin,” she said, her voice soft with desperation. “You can pay me the balance when I get down.”

Without a second thought, he whistled for the bus to stop. “Return the ticket and get down quickly.”

“It’s drizzling outside,” she pleaded. “Please don’t throw me out. Just help me.” She looked around and saw the other passengers watching her with curiosity, with an air of indifference.

Before she could say more, a gentle but firm voice rose from a nearby seat. “How can you do that?” an elderly man with a prominent beak-shaped nose said. “Can’t you see it’s drizzling heavily? Here, take this.” He held out a five-rupee coin. “

The conductor muttered something indecent and thrust a one-rupee into the man’s hand.

Meera stood frozen and surprised. It had all happened so quickly. “Sir, I don’t have the change,” she said, flustered. “Please take this fifty-rupee note. I will collect the balance later whenever we meet.”

He smiled softly. “Never mind. Four rupees is not a big amount. Are we not human beings? Don’t we have sisters and daughters like you? Let it be.”

He got up at the very next stop to get down. His shirt was worn, his chappals cheap, his face stubbled, but to Meera, he looked, though poor, like the kindest man she had ever seen.  His face stood permanently etched in her heart.

Two months later, Meera’s father called her.

“Meera, are you free today? I’m going to the orphanage. The manager has resigned, and we need to appoint someone new immediately. Will you come with me and help in the selection?”

She agreed immediately.

The orphanage was her father’s life’s work, a sanctuary for destitute and lost children who had nothing but hope. They were given shelter, food, education, and a chance at a future through vocational training. Her father wanted someone capable of handling the big responsibility.

As the interviews began, candidates came and went, some experienced but demanding higher compensation, some inexperienced but eager for money, some simply uninterested in the social work or the children themselves. Meera’s father had asked her to rate each one.

Then the last candidate walked in. Meera’s heart skipped a beat when she saw him.

The same beak-shaped nose. The same stubbled face. She was sure it was him. The man from the bus.

He stood respectfully, unaware of the recognition by her. She asked him gently to sit.

Her father studied his résumé. “You have no experience managing an institution. You’ve worked only as a clerk in a small store. Why do you think you’re suitable for this job?”

The man paused, then spoke quietly. “It’s true, sir. I have no experience. But I have many children. I know what it means to care for them. I will love these boys and girls as my own. I may lack qualifications and experience, but I promise sincerity and dedication. I need this job badly for running my household, but more than that, I want to serve.”

Her father nodded unsurely. “We’ll let you know in half an hour. Please wait.”

After he left, Meera turned to her father. “Appa, I know who I want.”

“Who?” he asked.

“The last gentleman.”

Her father looked aghast. “What? He has no experience. No managerial background. I’ve already crossed his name.”

“Appa,” she said softly, “experience can be gained. But compassion cannot. It is inherent. These children don’t just need an administrator; they need a kind heart. All the others came looking for a job. This person came to serve.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “How do you know he has compassion? Are you trusting mere words?”

Meera smiled and told him about the bus, the rain, the rude conductor, indifferent passengers and the kind stranger who paid her fare without expecting anything in return.

Her father fell silent.

That afternoon, the man was appointed, not just as the manager, but as administrator at a salary higher than originally planned.

A thousand words will not leave as deep an impression as one good deed