The Vehicle Number Romance

Naina’s imaginary relationship began with a scooter sticker. It showed a small mountain and the words TAKE IT EASY, a philosophy she found attractive during an ordinary Koramangala commute.

She was a regular passenger in a shared office cab. The scooter often stopped near it at the same signal. Its rider wore a navy jacket, carried a plain backpack, and waited without honking. These were modest facts. Naina developed them into a personality with excellent bookshelves and a healthy relationship with conflict.

Her friend Zoya, who shared the cab, asked whether she knew his name.

“No.”

“Job?”

“No.”

“Relationship status?”

“Obviously not.”

“So you like a jacket.”

Naina rejected this summary. She also liked the sticker.

Over three weeks, her imagination supplied interests, opinions, and a plausible favourite breakfast. The scooter’s number ended in forty-two. She remembered this only because it helped distinguish her fictional thoughtful person from the several other thoughtful people wearing navy jackets in Bengaluru.

Zoya refused to participate in further character development unless the man actually spoke. “You have written him three hobbies without permission,” she said.

Then, on Thursday, the speaking happened.

The cab was stationary near a roadside coconut stall when a loose coconut rolled towards the edge of the traffic lane. The scooter rider, also stopped, noticed it and called out loudly to the vendor.

“Your coconut! It’s going!”

The vendor looked in the wrong direction. The rider pointed. The coconut continued with the determination of someone late for onboarding.

“Brother! Here!” the rider called, now sounding considerably less like Naina’s imagined poet and more like an irritated sports commentator.

Naina stared. Zoya turned towards her with the delighted cruelty available only to close friends.

“Excellent communication skills,” she whispered.

The rider stayed safely stopped while the vendor retrieved the coconut when the way was clear. No one swerved after it. The man then looked at the rescued fruit and said, quite audibly, “At least one of us was making progress.”

The vendor laughed. Zoya laughed. Naina tried not to, failed, and felt the entire imaginary bookshelf collapse.

The signal changed. The scooter departed normally. Naina watched only until it moved out of their immediate view, then looked back at Zoya.

“I may have misjudged him.”

“You haven’t judged him at all. You have reviewed the jacket.”

For the rest of the ride, Zoya offered alternative hobbies for the mystery man: coconut supervision, emergency fruit management, competitive pointing. Naina asked her to stop after the fourth suggestion, which merely encouraged more.

A week later, they met him by accident outside a café, where he was parking properly and removing his helmet. Zoya recognised the sticker first. Naina recognised the awkwardness immediately afterwards.

“Coconut!” Zoya said before social restraint could intervene.

The man looked confused. They explained that they had witnessed the escape. He laughed and introduced himself as Abhinav. A woman emerged from the café carrying two takeaway cups. He introduced her as his wife, Rhea.

Naina’s imaginary relationship concluded with admirable administrative efficiency.

They talked briefly. Abhinav was friendly. Rhea thought the coconut story deserved retelling. Zoya somehow resisted mentioning the bookshelves, proving there were limits to her betrayal.

Abhinav mentioned that the mountain sticker had been a gift from his nephew, who liked mountains primarily because they were difficult to draw. Naina accepted this further reduction in the sticker’s romantic authority with admirable dignity.

Back in the cab, Naina admitted that the real person seemed perfectly nice.

“Much better,” Zoya said. “He has dialogue now.”

The following morning, another scooter stopped nearby with a sticker reading LIVE YOUR DREAMS.

Naina looked at it, then firmly opened her book.

Some dreams needed less research funding.

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