The Boy With The Ukulele

Buzz…Buzz... The alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. Shreya hesitated, but there was no other choice. This was her decision. She had to go see her aunt in Lamjung. 

Shreya loved her aunt dearly – the woman who once snuck her sweets as a child and now gossiped with her over the phone. But lately, life had been unkind. Her aunt wasn’t well. And this time, she wouldn’t let fate take another loved one without a goodbye. 

A direct bus from Kathmandu to Bandipur. Then, the next day, off to Lamjung.  But why stay a night in Bandipur? All alone?  “Self-retreat”, she had told her family. Something in her had shut down, and the spark on her face had faded. Everyone noticed, but no one understood.  Wake up. Drink water. Brush teeth. Eat cornflakes. Pack the charger. All checked.

Shreya reached the bus station 20 minutes early – a relief, yet something bothered her. Why did tourist buses always have double seats? She silently wished the one beside her would stay empty. Music was her escape. Earphones in, eyes on the window. Just six hours, she told herself. She could do this.

The bus began to roll, and a small wave of relief passed through her. Then – pat! – the conductor stopped it. A boy her age stepped in: glasses, messy long hair, tall, with a ukulele strapped to his back. She played one, too.  “Not here, please, not here,” she murmured.

The boy’s glance paused on the empty seat beside Shreya. Her heart raced as he approached, the ukulele gently bouncing on his back. She looked away, focusing intently on the scenery flashing, her mind storming.

He silently sat next to her. Shreya could feel the weight of his presence, the warmth of his body just a few inches away. She fought the flutter in her stomach and tried focusing on the hills outside. But her mind was elsewhere, grappling with the unease of the unexpected company. “Hey,” the boy said softly. “Is this seat taken?”

“No,” she replied, avoiding eye contact. With her earphones in, she could pretend to stay in her world. He tapped away on his phone as time drifted by. The engine’s hum and scattered voices filled the silence. Two hours later, the bus pulled over at a café for breakfast. 

Shreya sipped hot black tea, admiring the view. The sound of the ukulele caught her attention. She strolled towards the boy. “I think you’re playing the wrong chord. Shouldn’t it be an A minor instead of a D minor in the verse?”

He looked up, adjusted his fingers, and started strumming again, singing softly. ‘Asare Mahinama’ was a beautiful song choice.  “Much better!” Shreya said, her eyes lighting up.

“You’re a musician, aren’t you?” He asked, a gentle smile on his lips. Her heart skipped. “Um, I play a little,” she admitted, surprised at how easily the words slipped out. 

“That’s awesome!” He grinned, his genuine enthusiasm catching her off guard.

Before they could say more, the driver blew the horn. They glanced at each other and hurried back to the bus. “I’m Vihan, by the way. "Just started learning the ukulele,” he said as they sat.

“Nice to meet you, Vihan. I’m Shreya.”  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s taking you to Bandipur? You seem like a solo traveller, too.” “They say the stars look magical from up there,” he replied, eyes dreamy. 

Shreya grinned. “What about you?” 

“I’m on my way to Lamjung to visit my aunt. Thought I’d spend some time alone in Bandipur first. Doesn’t hurt, right?” “Not at all!” he responded.

They then talked about their favourite artists and songs.

Soon after, Shreya dozed off, her head resting against the window – until it suddenly slipped onto Vihan’s shoulder. He let it be and remained still. She looked peaceful.

A sudden break jolted her awake. Realising where her head had landed, she sat up, cheeks flushed. “I’m so sorry!” Vihan chuckled softly. “No need. You seemed relaxed.” 

Sensing her discomfort, he subtly shifted to make her more comfortable.  The bus rumbled along, then slowed down near a roadside resort for lunch. Bandipur was just an hour away now. 

They had Dal Bhat Tarkari, admiring the view of the river.  After finishing, Vihan handed her the ukulele. “Want to give it a try?” Shreya hesitated, memories flooding back. It had been ages since she last played. Her fingers trembled, but the familiar melody returned.

Tears slid down her cheeks as she sang “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley. The regret hit hard. She missed him. Why did he have to leave so soon?

“Sorry… I, umm… I got a bit emotional,” she said, voice trembling. “There was this boy I loved – Aditya. I never confessed. And then, the universe took him. Just like that. I wish he knew.”   Her heart ached; the weight of her words was heavy in the air. “I’m sorry for ruining the mood. I better go,” she whispered, turning away. 

Vihan stood and followed her… “Hey, you didn’t ruin anything. “It’s okay to feel this way,” he said. “We all carry burdens, and sharing them can lighten the load.”

Shreya felt an unexpected warmth in his words.

“I always thought there would be more time.” Her voice trembled.

“It’s hard losing someone too soon,” he said. “But maybe he knew, somehow. Love isn’t just about words – it’s in your shared memories.”

Shreya wiped a tear, surprised by the comfort she felt. “Thank you, Vihan. I didn’t expect to share this with someone I just met.”

“Sometimes the most meaningful connections happen when we least expect them,” he smiled.

They boarded the bus again. But this time, Vihan’s presence felt reassuring. A nostalgic comfort. As the bus approached Bandipur, the sun dipped low, painting the horizon in hues of orange and pink. 

“I’ll get off at the next stop,” Vihan said, adjusting his ukulele. He handed her a note.

“Here – my number. Do give me a call when you reach.”

“Bye,” she whispered, watching his figure shrink through the bus window.

Stepping off the bus, Shreya recalled how she and Aditya had once planned to visit Bandipur together. Heading towards the hotel, she dialled the number from the note. The stars were slowly appearing in the night sky.  Shreya suddenly came to a halt. She froze. Her body turned numb. No way this could all be real. The number was already saved on her phone. “Aadi”, the screen read. It was the nickname for Aditya she adored.

(Upadhyay is a recent A-Level graduate.)