Ganesh was slumped against the wheel. He had hit the wheel — the old bus had no airbag — and the wheel had hit him, and what she could see was a man who was breathing — she could see the breathing, the chest moving — but who was unconscious. She reached him and put her hand on his shoulder and said his name and shook him and nothing happened. He breathed. He did not wake up.
She looked at the windshield. Through it: the mountain road, which had been the mountain road twenty seconds ago, was now — she could not describe what it was now. Water over rock over what had been road. The road surface was still visible in one section, about thirty metres ahead of the bus, but between here and there the road had become a running surface of fast water and debris — branches, mud, what appeared to be part of a stone wall from somewhere upslope. Behind the bus — she turned to look — was water. Not as violent as in front, but the shoulder they had slid down was under water. The route back up to the road was gone.
"Ma'am." The voice from behind her was steady. Not the voice of someone in panic — the voice of someone who had assessed the situation and understood that panic was not the current tool. She turned. Vikram — the Class 9 boy from the second row — was standing in the aisle, bracing himself against the tilt of the floor, looking at her. "The bus is on a rock shelf," he said. "I can see from here.
