By the roadside, a little boy was spinning a woodইen top. I stopped for a moment and watched. Then, pressed for time, I climbed onto the back of a moving pedal van.
There were two passengers seated in front of me—a woman and a man.
A short while later, the van stopped at a small station. The woman got down and began walking toward her destination.
The driver called after her.
“Madam, your fare, please.”
She turned around.
She was middle-aged, neatly dressed, with a calm, dignified face.
“I already paid,” she said.
“No, you didn’t,” the driver replied.
The woman unfolded a small bundle of ten-taka notes from the end of her sari and said,
“Before getting on the van, I broke a one-hundred-taka note at a shop. I gave you ten taka when I boarded. These are the remaining nine notes. Look.”
She started unfolding the notes for everyone to see.
By then, a few other van drivers and curious passersby had gathered around.
The driver reached into his pocket, took out his money, and said,
“I left home with one hundred taka. I dropped off these two passengers. Together they paid thirty taka. Look—now I have one hundred and thirty.”
Silence fell over the crowd.
Those who had been ready to speak looked at one another and said nothing.
The driver said,
“I’ve given free rides to plenty of people. You could have simply told me the truth.”
In the same calm voice, the woman replied,
“I did pay you.”
No one spoke again.
The woman quietly walked away.
The van rolled on, its wheels turning as before.