In the mid-nineties, one day after coming back from my Gynaecology posting, I boarded a minibus near Jehangir Chowk towards the medical college hostel at Bemina. As my minibus was crossing the junction, and the bus conductor was frantically calling "Bemina Bemina," another minibus passed left towards Iqbal Park. I intuitively looked left, and I had a glimpse of Shabroz in that minibus. She looked at me, and both of us got up instantly, as if tied by an unbreakable knot. The matador I had boarded was moving at a slow pace. I jumped down like a man possessed. Her matador stopped at a distance, and my heart stopped for a moment and then raced. I was watching Shabroz alighting from the minibus, and the mere thought of meeting and talking was overwhelming; the flashback button was on, and a moment later, her petite left foot touched the ground, there was the sound of a thud, which all of us presumed as the sound of a blast. And everyone ran helter-skelter. The conductor pulled Shabroz back onto the minibus and started speeding. I was dumbstruck at one place. The next moment I realized the minibus was gone, possibly forever. On the ground, people started to rise from their crawling positions, shop shutters started being lifted, street vendors started returning from their hiding places, and everything seemed fine. But not my world. This loud thud was just a tyre burst and not a grenade blast. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief, and life started again. But not for me. How could fate be so cruel? I stood frozen at one corner of the road and kept looking towards the left, hoping for a miracle. Her minibus was gone, and with it, the hope of ever meeting Shabroz again.