My name is Myra. I
am a young woman, dressed modestly in jeans and a T shirt. Its twilight in an
erratic monsoon season in Mangalore, and I am ensconced in a crowded
covered bus stop, cringing from the splashing rain, and waiting eagerly for my
bus to arrive. I am eager to go home after a hard day’s work at a
premium eatery in Mangalore.
My bus crawls toward me
and stops a little away from the actual
bus stop, blocking all the traffic behind it. I am compelled to, along with
others, leave my comfort zone for the rain drenched street.
I fold my umbrella in a
hurry splashing water on all who can smell what remains of my morning perfume
ritual, and climb up the steep steps of the bus,. Unlike the intercity
Volvo bus, the steps are more like a stairway to heaven, when all they really
are, is an ascent into hell.
As I get onto the first
step, I hold onto the side bar of the doorway to prevent myself from sliding
backwards. The bus starts moving and I start swinging, quite like an orangutan
in a forest, those lovely cuddly creatures you generally see gracing the discovery channel. The fact is, they
were discovered eons ago, but the camera was discovered only in the 18th
century.
The bus snails forward
and I am pulled up the steps by a guy
who stands in the doorway, with the top of his six pack abs showing above the
last buttoned button of his denim shirt, the 4th from the top.
His half open shirt leaves uncovered a hairless muscled chest and a huge gold
bracelet cum necklace that adds color to his deep brown tan. His shirt
is tucked into a low waist slim fit pant, around which hangs a 2 inch
belt snugly fastened.
The guy is reasonably
good looking, his crew cut and piercing brown eyes and rippling biceps adding
to his aura.. He has a pen strategically perched on his right ear, and in his
left hand, between the middle and ring finger, is an A4 sheet of paper folded 8
times! I notice all of this in a jiffy, without actually looking at him.
I reach the top step and this guy shifts his
position to stand in front of me. I have a tough time not leaning into him, and
not falling backwards, as the bus starts, with a jerk. I am now looking at the
top of his crew cut and mentally comparing his 6 pack abs with Shah Rukh’s 8
pack in Happy New Year.
I am now at the front of
a serpentine sardinish queue, and I am witness to the heroism of our captain
and driver. He negotiates the Bendore well junction, with deft and sharp turns
of the steering wheel, using the palm of his sole and heel of his palm to good
effect, on the brakes and the horn respectively, to avoid the buttery two
wheeler population and pedestrians in a hurry to get to the other side, and, respectfully,
but loudly and continuously make the vehicle yell at people to get out of the
way…Mr. Higgs boson, the God particle is on the way…
I can see that it’s not
entirely his fault though, the road during evening return rush hour is so
chaotic, that the policeman posted there can only cover his mouth with the thin
pretty surgical gauze handed out to them by the powers that be, pull his bowler
down into his face, cross the road and watch from the sidelines, much like the
lineman in the FIFA world cup. Occasionally however, he does cross into the
minefield to ensure, at great risk to his life and liberty, that the great
Mangalorean bus trick fulfills its promise!
The kilometers crawl and
time flies. The bus is now at the next stop on its roundabout journey,
from and to the state bank of India near the DC’s office, and there are about
20 passengers waiting to get on, an equal number of gents and ladies.
Even as it grinds to a stop, I can see a clutch of people performing the bus
jump, the athletic event where you jump and run in the direction in which the
bus is moving – so as not to trip over yourself.
The gents are shooed to
the back door, and the gentle ladies, are welcomed through the front door by
handsome crew cut. I am pushed further back into the bus, how, I am still not
clear, and I don’t think either Einstein, Ramanuja or Newton will ever figure
it out.
Inch by excruciating
inch, I am repressed, and as it restarts with a jerk and I ram into a guy in
front of me before I steady myself. He turns around and glares at me. I say “
sorry”, but I notice, he is not. I get the feeling that he quite liked the
feeling.
I worry about my handbag
which hangs in front of me on a long strap. I hold on to the overhead rod for
dear life even as my left hand protects my body and hand bag. I resolve to
pursue my resolution, to learn to use a two wheeler – if my parents agree, in
the near future, to fund one for me…. I know I have to battle my
own demons before I battle theirs.
Another two stops, the
same chaos. Familiarity with the route, experience and a glimpse of the
external environment through the flapping tarpaulin, tell me I am nearing my
destination. I am glad that I have survived the journey, nay enjoyed the
stress of it. I admire my gumption and perseverance. I am in one piece, but my
shoulder nymph lodes have started to explode.
I now have a new problem
on hand… how to push forward in an environment in which everything and everyone
is moving in the opposite direction. To me it seems like a complex physics
problem, and physics was never my favorite subject.
I realize that I cannot
wait until the destination arrives and I start to weave in and out of
serpentine sardinish queue, inch by inch, often holding on to the overhead rod
with both my hands. Somehow I reach the front door, and as the bus slows
further (it was already slow because of the traffic) to a stop. I am pushed out
of the bus in a rush, that in the end I am glad to be free of moving
overcrowded prison.
I am too tired to walk,
and I decide to take an auto to cover the short distance to my home. I am a
cautious girl, always have been, and I do not want to haggle with an auto
driver about his right to change (sic) once I reach my home. So, I decide to
check if I have the right amount of change. I open my handbag to take out my
little red purse, in which I keep my daily accrual of wealth.
I search among the items of makeup and a
million other little things, but can’t find it. It is then that I realize that
I have been purse picked. By this time the bus has already moved on and I am
left holding the bag…literally.
I go over the journey
again, my suspicion fixed on the man who didn’t look sorry, when I said sorry.
People see a wry smile on my face as I now really feel sorry for him – at best
he can have a decent vegetarian meal with the loot. I forgive him his
trespasses and walk home tiredly, my resolve to get a two wheeler stronger than
ever.
No comments:
Post a Comment