The Night-Shift Sunrise

Sana finished her night shift with the particular expression of someone who had answered the same question in six different ways and was now prepared to communicate exclusively by nodding. Outside her workplace in Electronic City, morning had started without asking whether she was ready.

Her colleague, Tejas, waved a cheerful goodbye. He had an alarming reserve of conversation for a man who had also worked through the night. Sana suspected he stored it in an additional stomach.

She had arranged a cab rather than drive tired. At the pickup point, she checked the vehicle details, greeted her driver, Mohan, and settled into the back seat with her seat belt fastened. Her bag rested securely beside her. She sent her sister a brief passenger update and put the phone away.

Then the radio announced, “Rise and shine!”

Sana opened one eye.

The presenter seemed delighted by the existence of mornings. He invited listeners to seize the day. Sana had already held the day by its administrative edges for several hours and wished to release it.

“Could we turn that down a little, please?” she asked.

Mohan lowered the volume. “Night shift?”

She nodded.

“Going home?”

She nodded with greater conviction.

He wished her a good rest and returned his attention to driving. It was a short, considerate conversation, exactly the size Sana could manage. The presenter continued somewhere at a civilised distance, now seizing the day on behalf of people with fresher brains.

As the cab moved, Sana watched shops preparing to open. A man was arranging chairs. Someone else was unpacking flowers. She felt briefly fond of all of them, partly because none had requested a status update from her.

At a slow stretch, her phone vibrated. Tejas had sent a photograph of his breakfast. She looked at it from the passenger seat, replied with a sleeping emoji and switched the screen off again. He answered with three enthusiastic words about chutney. She decided friendship could survive without her immediate engagement.

The radio presenter asked listeners to describe their big goal for the morning. Sana considered calling in to say curtains. Instead, she rested her head comfortably and let the idea remain private. It was possible to have a goal without announcing it to a city.

When the road required more attention, Mohan concentrated. Sana did not ask him to hurry because she was tired. A safe arrival mattered more than winning several minutes that she would probably spend searching for her house keys anyway.

Her sister, Nisha, had promised breakfast at home. This was generous, although Nisha's idea of welcome sometimes included opening every curtain and declaring the apartment cheerful. Sana sent one final message when they were close: Please keep the house in night mode.

Nisha replied with a photograph of a darkened room and a plate covered on the table. Sana nearly wrote a thank-you speech, then saved her energy for the actual door.

At the appropriate drop-off point, Mohan stopped. Sana checked for her belongings, thanked him and got out safely. He wished her good morning, paused, then added, “Good night also.”

“Perfect,” she said. “That covers my situation.”

Inside, Nisha spoke quietly. Breakfast was ready, the curtains were closed, and nobody had scheduled a discussion about weekend plans. Sana ate, drank some water and began the small ritual of becoming unavailable.

Then Tejas called.

She declined and sent a message: Sleeping now. We can talk later.

He replied immediately. Enjoy!

Sana looked at the word for a moment. It was the most sensible contribution he had made all morning.

As she closed her bedroom door, Nisha asked whether she should set an alarm.

“Later,” Sana murmured.

“How much later?”

“After the radio man has seized enough day for both of us.”

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