On the Way to Kuyilapalayam Higher Secondary School, Puducherry, India

The teacher bus picks me up at the side of the road. Stepping up three school bus steps, the Bollywood bass and empty seats strike me. Sit in the front, I’m told, You’re a guest of the school. Lurching through morning traffic, scramble of scooters and autorickshaws, we pick up teachers. Women and more women, climbing off the back of motorcycles driven by men. Women in saris so many different colors the bus blooms with each stop. We pick up a fifty-pound bag of rice, a box of something hefted on with the help of someone waiting for another bus. From the highway, the sea and the sun seem dull compared to the thump and glow of the bus on the way to school.

Tomorrow, I want to ride the student bus, seats filled with girls or boys, all matched: uniforms, polished shoes, silver tiffin boxes, braids so long they’re folded over on themselves and tied with blue ribbon. I want it to be someone’s birthday, the day a student can come in their own clothes with a basket of sweets to share. I want that music, to see the sun coming up over the bay to that bass. I want to take notes on the difference.