7 AM, A Purple Dupatta, and the Woman Who Taught Me Strength

here was a time when my day used to start at 7:00 a.m. Half-asleep eyes. A tiffin hurriedly packed. Dad dropping me to the bus stop with a “Call me once you reach.”

I was in my first year of engineering — still figuring out everything. The city. Myself. Life. And at that little bus stop near my home … that’s where I met her.

She must’ve been in her 50s. Always in a neat Punjabi dress, most often with a purple dupatta fluttering like it had somewhere to go before we did. She worked at Ruby Hall Clinic. I was just another girl with a college bag and dreams tucked inside.

We never had a filmy start to our friendship. No dramatic hello. No instant connection. Just… little things.

One day she asked me to get her ticket along with mine. I said yes, of course. Next day, I saved her a seat. Another day, she made sure I sat down because my leg was injured from a Volleyball match. I didn’t even tell her. She just noticed.

And from those little things,

a bond quietly took shape.

We started walking a few steps together after the bus ride. She’d ask, “Aaj kay hotay college madhe?” And I’d ask, “Tumhi kal disla nahi… everything okay?”

We started waiting for each other. Looking for that one empty seat next to the other. She told me about her kids, how proud she was of them, and how even now — despite everything — she chose to work. Not for money, she’d say. “For self-respect.”

And then once… I’ll never forget this…

I was too anxious to speak up in the bus. Too many people, too much noise. She looked at me and softly said:

“Aaj mi aahe tuzhyasathi bolayla, pan nehmi nasel na, tula tuzhach aavaj banava lagel nahitar hya jagat nibhav nahi lagnar tuzha.” (I’ll speak for you this time, but next time, you must.)

And just like that — she became my voice when mine felt too small.

I didn’t even realise when our conversations became a ritual. When her presence started feeling like a warm cup of chai on a tired day.

She never gave me big life advice. But she showed up. Every morning. At 7 a.m. With a quiet smile and a loud kind of strength.

Now I go to college on my scotty. Life’s a bit faster, a bit louder. But sometimes… just sometimes… when I cross that stop, I look out for that purple dupatta.

Some people aren’t meant to stay forever. They’re meant to meet you in transit. Teach you something. And leave you better.

To the woman who once waited with me at 7 a.m. — I hope you know you made an impact.

Thank you for being my reminder that kindness can be quiet, and strength doesn’t always need to shout.