It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
THE ENGLISH MAN At first, I perceived him as my enemy, as did my colleague. When you regarded him with a greeting he responded with silence or a frown, not once, not twice. He had these knocked knees that he threw around like his pride when he walked out or into the ENGLISH lab that accommodated unfriendly dust. I pictured his face one day as the image of the un-wiped whiteboard occupying space in the lab. The board had many inscriptions on it that were quite ugly; like drawings of an amateur. It just hung there, representing a deceitful notion of facility needed. He would resume very early every weekday. His black shadow (computer bag) would sit on his desk signifying his presence when he left to teach a class. This black shadow suited a computer engineer or a lawyer, but certainly not an English teacher. I remember once picturing him in a suit and a tie, or a range rover sport. I had to perish the thought though because I wouldn’t know if he’d ever smile even in suc...