He Heard the Grapes

Same bus,
different seat.
And in front of me—
a boy,
caught.

Maybe under fifteen.
A phone in his pocket
that wasn’t his.

People surrounded him
like a punishment waiting to happen.
They shouted,
They cursed.
They stared like he was already nothing.

The man whose phone it was
said quietly,
"Remove him from the bus."
And they did.

No police,
no words—
just thrown out like a wrapper.

Then the talk began.

“He’s done this before.”
“He’s an expert now.”
“Thank god it wasn’t mine.”
“I remember that face.”

And me—
just nodding,
pretending to agree,
sitting with people
but thinking alone.

His face looked new,
like someone just learning
how to walk into the world,
but already carrying
what the world has thrown on him.

I don’t know if it was need
that made him do it,
or if someone
taught him this as survival.

It takes guts
to do what he did—
not the right kind,
but still—guts.

He stood
like a secret monkey,
trained to be invisible
until he strikes.

What made him like that?

Was it the situation?
No—
situations test people,
but don’t build them alone.

Maybe it’s the nature around him.
The kind of world
where no one tells you
you can be more.

I wonder
what face he’ll show himself
when he realizes
what he’s become.

If he ever does.

by Suraj Godiyal

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