Yangyel Lhaden

In the packed city bus, a senior citizen steps in.

A little girl, probably six-years-old, sits in the priority seat—for persons with disabilities, the elderly, and pregnant women.

As she sees the elderly man, she quickly stands up, her small voice piping up: “Na zhu la, agay”, offering him the spot.

The old man looks around, and seeing there is no other seat for her, shakes his head, refusing to take the offer.

But the little girl insists, her brows furrowing with determination.

“Ahh, agay, please take the seat, I mean it!”

Finally, they strike a deal: the old man takes the priority seat, and the girl perches on his lap.

As the bus rattles along, they giggle and chat, sharing stories.

The little girl’s stop comes too soon. And she hops off, waving at the old man, before skipping down the road.

As the bus waits for more passengers, the old man watches her until she disappears from view, a soft, thoughtful smile lingering on his face.

It is a common sight, these small acts of kindness. Strangers meeting for a moment but sharing something bigger—connection.

In the city bus, younger ones rise to give their seats to the elderly, pregnant women, or those with disabilities.

No one asks, no one tells them to. They just do.

Life might be busy outside, but inside the bus, there is a pause.

The bus is a world of its own, a little ecosystem where the essence of being Bhutanese quietly blooms.

In the blur of the city, where people don’t even know the neighbour next door, something different happens here. Strangers sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing space, stories, glances. It is a fleeting connection, but it feels like home—where kindness still has its place.

For Yangchen, a regular commuter, the morning bus ride is her quiet escape. It is a slow, steady pause before the rush of the day. She listens to music, watches the world stop at each bus stop, and breathes. In those little moments, life slows down.

“I enjoy the bus,” she says. “It is peaceful, a brief pause before the chaos.”

On one of the bus rides, old friends meet after decades. They chat, make new plans, and change destinations.

At the stops, regular commuters become acquaintances and then friends, sharing conversation as the bus pulls away.

Tenzin Dolma, a regular on the city bus, can’t help but admire when a woman is behind the wheel. “They are so inspiring, so capable,” she says. “I was shocked the first time I saw a woman bus driver. And they drive so well.”

Every morning, she rides from Babesa to Norzin Lam, where she works at a private firm. “The city bus is not only cheap, it is convenient,” she adds. “One comes every ten minutes, like clockwork.”

There is always a bit of humour when the smart card beeps for the city bus fare.

One day, a woman swiped her card, only to hear the voice announce, “Nguel milang bay, lok chasho bay na mey”—insufficient balance, please recharge.

Her face flushed, and she laughed, “I wish that voice didn’t come—it is so embarrassing!”

The crowd chuckled along. She had no cash, but before she could worry, another passenger stepped up, offering to pay her fare with a smile.

And that little act of kindness is what makes city bus rides such a joy!