It was 8:30 a.m. in Kannur and the sky looked like it had been washed clean overnight blue, sharp and annoyingly perfect for a workday. Here mornings have this very specific vibe, humid but soft, the smell of sea & Malayalam movie songs playing somewhere at a distant. I had a camera bag, a half empty water bottle & a very misleading sense of control. My task was simple: reach Azhikode for engagement shoot, return by evening.
The Kannur New Bus Stand was buzzing in that small town way, hawkers selling stuff wrapped in old Malayalam newspapers and a group of schoolboys arguing about Messi vs. Ronaldo, buses hissing out steam like they were collectively sighing at life, conductors yelling destinations so fast it felt like a rap battle and one loud rooster somewhere (still don’t know why he was there, but he added to the soundtrack).
I asked one of them, “Azhikode bus?”. Without looking up from his ticket bundle, he pointed to a faded red bus & said, “That one. Fast service. Sometimes.” The “fast service” part was clearly a lie, but I climbed in anyway. I spotted a red KSRTC bus with Azhikode written in fading white paint across its front. It had that old bus charm, faded blue seats, rust patterns like accidental art and a poster of Mohanlal winking from behind the driver’s seat. I paid my twenty rupee fare & slide into a window seat, the kind where wind hits just right and you feel like the protagonist of your own movie. I thought it’d be a quiet 30 minute ride. Little did I know, "pictute abhi baki hai!".
The bus was almost full when he entered, Late twenties, tallish, curly hair bouncing like he’d come straight out of a Garnier ad, slightly overgrown beard, neatly ironed light blue shirt tucked neatly into a pant, a gold chain glinting in the sun, small black sling bag, and an expression that screamed “main good boy hoon.” He scanned the seats, saw me and hesitated for a microsecond before asking, “Seat free?” His English was cautious, “Yeah, yeah,” I said, moving my bag. He sat carefully, balancing himself like sitting beside a bomb that might go off if he sneezed. He placed his jhola bag on his lap and stared straight ahead like he was taking an exam. For the first few minutes, silence. He looked out of the window, then looked at me, then again at the window. Repeat. You could almost hear his brain preparing an opening line.
After exactly five minutes, he looked at me again. “You are… tourist?” That pause between “you are” and “tourist” felt like he was checking if the word existed.
“Kind of,” I replied, smiling. “Work trip.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Ah. From Bangalore?”
“Mumbai,” I said.
“Mumbai!” he repeated with a full smile, like I had just said Paris.
“My cousin working there. Capgemini.”
Of course. Someones some has to be in Mumbai.
The bus rattled past coconut groves & a baby started crying somewhere in the back. A middle aged uncle was eating something so loudly it could’ve been ASMR. My co passenger, meanwhile, was now officially chatty. He extended his hand suddenly, almost ceremoniously. “Myself Vishnu. Printing shop. Marriage cards, visiting cards, election banners all items possible.” I shook his hand, trying not to laugh. “Pranjal,” I said. “Photography, tour managing & writing, all items possible.” That made him laugh out loud, the kind of laugh that made two aunties turn around and glare. He had this easy confidence, the kind of energy that makes everyone on a bus either like him instantly or pray he gets off early. Vishnu, now visibly more confident, leaned back like he’d known me for a decade. About fifteen minutes into the journey. He had now started doing running commentary of passing sights “This shop best kapi in Kannur. That coconut tree, last time lightning hit it. That house my uncle’s ex wife’s brother staying there.” Every time the bus hit a bump, Vishnu instinctively reached for the handle in front of him and said, “Careful, seat broken.” Like he’d personally taken responsibility for my safety.
About twenty minutes in, Vishnu had fully entered his main character arc.
He had switched his seat slightly towards me, his elbows now confidently resting on his bag. He tilted his head, smiled and said, “You very calm.” I laughed. “No, I’m just tired.”
He shook his head. “No no. Calm face. Marriage face.” I choked on air. “What?”
“Marriage face,” he said seriously. “Like… handle problems without shouting.” I laughed again. “That’s… very specific.”
He grinned. “My amma say if girl can sit in bus calmly, she good wife material.” The aunty across the aisle giggled. I hid my face and laughed into my sleeve. The entire left side of the bus was low key invested now.
As the bus crossed a small bridge overlooking a backwater stretch, the light hit perfectly sea breeze, golden reflections, the smell of salt. And in that cinematic moment, Vishnu decided to go full Bollywood. He cleared his throat dramatically, “Pranjal,” he said (by now he had asked my name). “You are good. You smile nice. You travel, take photos, see world…I like that. You take photo, I print photo. We can do business together… also life.” I told him, “Vishnu, you’re proposing to someone you met 25 minutes ago!”
He shrugged. “Love not need big time. Only good WiFi and confidence.” That line nearly killed me. I was laughing so hard, my stomach hurt. Now the entire bus was listening. Someone at the back whistled. A little boy yelled, “Say yes, akka!” I burst out laughing so hard, even Vishnu joined in. Then he added, “Don’t worry. I not serious serious. Just half serious.” I said, “Good. Because I don’t have my wedding outfit packed.” He grinned. “No problem. I printing discount for you.”
As the bus neared Azhikode, the laughter slowly faded into quiet smiles. The breeze came through the window soft, salty, familiar. Vishnu looked out, then turned to me. “You know, madam,” he said, “I just joking, but also… not joking.” I smiled. “You’re a funny guy, Vishnu.” He grinned, clearly happy with that title. When the bus stopped, he got up, picked up his bag, and said, “I getting down first. Otherwise I will keep talking. But you remember Vishnu from printing shop. If you need wedding card, first copy free.” I laughed, shaking my head. “Deal, Mr. Vishnu.”
Hopped off the bus and vanished into the sea of people. I sat there for a second, half expecting him to turn around and wave dramatically like a movie ending. He didn’t. Instead, he disappeared into the crowd like just another everyday life character.
I stayed in my seat for a minute, trying to process what just happened. The aunty behind me tapped my shoulder and said, “He nice boy, no? Full time entertainer.” “Absolutely,” I said, still laughing. “This ride deserves an award.” When I got off, the Azhikode air hit me. I walked towards the venue, thinking how travel is never just about destinations. It’s about who makes sure you never have a dull journey. That day, I didn’t just reach Azhikode. I reached it with one story safely tucked into my travel backpack, "The Story of Seat No. 7". The entire scene wasn’t creepy. It wasn’t awkward. It was just… human. Goofy. Wholesome. The kind of absurd story you collect when you travel alone safely, curiously, open to the ridiculousness of the world. That day I didn’t find a husband, but I did find the perfect reminder of why I love the road because it’s never boring.
Later that night, I texted a friend:
“Got proposed to on a bus by a printing press guy named Vishnu. He said it’s destiny because I take photos and he prints them.”
She replied instantly:
“You attract chaos like mosquitoes attract tube light.”
And honestly, she’s right.
Travel and I? We’ve never been simple.
We’re just accidentally everywhere
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