The Moving Landmark

Pranav believed in clear communication. His manager disagreed, his girlfriend had reservations, and his cab driver was about to join their side.

“I’m near the yellow bus,” Pranav said into his phone.

“Which yellow bus?” asked the driver, Joseph.

“The big one.”

Marathahalli offered several candidates. Pranav stood on the footpath outside a row of shops, wearing the optimistic shirt of a man heading for a haircut before a family function. His booking pin sat somewhere behind a building. The yellow bus seemed a much better reference.

Joseph asked him to stay there. Pranav agreed. Then the bus moved slowly forward, and Pranav, still speaking, walked along the footpath beside it so his description would remain technically accurate.

“I’m still near it,” he reported.

Joseph watched the passenger dot wander away from the pickup point. He pulled over safely and called again. “Sir, are you walking?”

“Only a little.”

“Please stay.”

Pranav stopped. Unfortunately, he had now stopped beside a second yellow bus parked farther ahead. This one carried a school excursion banner and several adults with the expressions of people responsible for sixty water bottles.

Joseph asked what he could see. Pranav described a tyre shop, a pharmacy, and a man eating something from a steel plate. Joseph confirmed that these details applied to a surprisingly large area.

A teacher descended from the bus and looked at Pranav’s smart shirt. “Are you the photographer?”

“No, madam. Waiting for a cab.”

“Then please don’t stand with our group. The children are counting you.”

Pranav stepped aside. A child at the window held up six fingers, frowned, and started counting again. Somewhere, Joseph’s navigation recalculated with the exhaustion of a marriage counsellor.

Pranav sent a photo. It showed the bus, half a pharmacy sign, and an exceptionally clear view of his own thumb. Joseph replied with a photograph of his white car. This showed another pharmacy, a different tyre shop, and an equally convincing man with a plate.

For a moment, both men suspected the city of duplication.

The salon called. “Sir, are you coming?”

“Absolutely. Transport is being finalised.”

“Your appointment started ten minutes ago.”

“My haircut has become a logistics project.”

Joseph suggested a sensible solution: cancel the drifting pin, choose a fixed shop frontage away from the junction, and remain there. Pranav finally looked up from his phone properly. Beside him was a bakery with a large purple sign reading SWEET CORNER. It possessed four walls, a doorway, and no obvious intention of leaving.

“Purple bakery,” he said. “I will stand near the entrance, clear of the driveway.”

“Excellent, sir.”

They connected within six minutes. Pranav climbed into the back seat feeling the relief of someone successfully rescued from his own instructions. Joseph checked the destination.

“Salon?”

“Yes.”

“Not Electronic City?”

“No. Why?”

“That first bus was going there. I thought perhaps eventually we all were.”

At the salon, Pranav arrived late enough that his usual stylist had taken another customer. He sat down beside an old magazine and reviewed his morning. Nothing dangerous had happened. No one had shouted. Yet he had somehow made a two-kilometre journey feel like coordinating a minor military evacuation.

When his girlfriend asked where to meet him afterwards, he began, “Near the white—” and stopped himself.

He sent the salon’s address, a photograph of its sign, and a message: “I will remain inside this building.”

She replied with three clapping emojis.

Joseph, meanwhile, received his next booking. The passenger called immediately.

“I’m next to a blue scooter.”

He closed his eyes for one second, then asked for the name of a shop.

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.