THE TYPICAL INDIAN NIGHTMARE

To

The Bus Driver



I’d heard that the Devil comes bearing horns, or at least some distinctive marker. Mine was green with a low-floor and came on two sets of wheels, rolling furiously upon the gray tarmac. When I got in, I had no knowledge of what lay ahead of me in those fifteen minutes. I was straddling a book and a purse and a bag and myself, like I usually do. No big deal. The crowd, that sea of humanity judging each other’ sartorial choices, seemed moderate within the bus.

And then the ruckus began.

Bus stop after bus stop. People after people after people, and the automatic doors cramped shut. More and more of them joined into the sea of humanity, now forced to breathe upon each others’ faces, within that bus. It seemed as if no one had got out within the range of five bus stops.

Alarm bells started ringing in my head. I had to get out somehow. But how, and when?

There was not an iota of space left within-not to stand, nor to breathe.

The space to stand shrunk and shrunk further into a ‘nothing’, until there was literally none left. Everybody was leaning onto someone or the other. If the Aunty next to me fell, I’d be imbalanced and fall with a thud too. We were all standing on each others’ feet and grabbing shoulders, stabbing ankles with toes. Massive sports shoes-to-sports shoes, heels-to-heels and boots-to-boots, thrust within milimetres of each other. The people cried out and stirred in irritation. An oblivious elbow came from somewhere and jabbed my ribs, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

“Madam ji, aage ho jao na! The bus is ‘literally’ empty!!” somebody screamed in my ear.

A child howled in exasperation behind me.

“Don’t open the gates! DON’T! Aage se nikaalo sabko,” I imagine this was the conductor.

And like herds of cattle loaded on a freight train, gasping for breath, yet unable to help ourselves, we struggled on.

My mind had started to go fuzzy.

I could taste fear, and some strange emotion at the back of my throat. Perhaps tears.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity of shoving and jostling and stabbing and jutting, there came the finale. The crowd seemed to ease off a little. We began to let go. The screams of the annoying kids stopped. The adults ceased snapping at the conductor. The bus began to clear up.

And I concluded that I am claustrophobic.

But who isn’t?

Who likes to be caught by their hair and thrown in the midst of that stinking sea of humanity?

But just because this is an experience too, and I believe experiences amount to something in life, I will not complain. You and your Devil’s bus have given me a great experience which I might never forget.

Thank you for that.

No really, thanks.

I mean it.



Yours truly