Everyday, the Shivajinagar bus terminal sees hundreds of people running about, talking loudly, reading, listening to the radio, mouthing lyrics, giggling, talking to themselves, staring, sweating, chewing pan, spitting, touching and rubbing against people (or themselves). And most of them do some of these things, or endure them on an everyday basis. Yesterday, I was foolish enough to take a bus to Shivajinagar during peak hours. In BMTC bus users' language, it means that while the bus moves an inch at a time through traffic, there will be hoards of sweaty people rubbing against you, trying to fit their foot into the small space between your left foot and your right, all the while breathing in your face like Komodo Dragons. I had decided to be smart this time and despite how much the conductor might yell, not move to the back of bus. Having to miss your stop because you are too small and polite to push through the crowd in time is unacceptable. And having to walk an unnecessary 20 minutes to your destination because of that is even more unacceptable! So I stood at a safe distance from the front doorway, but refused to move any further in.

I was trying desperately to hold my head still in a non-stinky gap, when an elderly man came pushing through all the women and their bags, presumably to get off from the front doorway. He was mumbling something about how people suck (Okay, I polished his words a little bit). But the point is, I supposed he was coming through with the intention of getting off at the next stop. There wasn't an inch to move and he was, with all due respect, a fat man. He was restless, as though he wanted to jump off the bus immediately. Being irritable and annoyed about having showered just before I left home for THIS journey, I quickly said “Naanu ili beku, uncle. Next stop”. Saying that, I managed to squeeze in a tiny smile. He's an old man so he must be nice, I thought. But uncle said nothing and just stood there breathing heavily. I watched him for a few seconds, not finding enough space to turn my head back. He was a tall man, well-built and sturdy. He wore a sort of silky, cream half-sleeved shirt with big brown flowers placed haphazardly on it. He looked like he was right out of a 70s sitcom, only much less happy. His skin was paper-like and spread across his face like a wrinkled sheet. It held two small scribbles like slits for eyes, strikingly black behind thick glasses. A few moments after I'd managed to turn my head back, I felt a sharp push that threw me half-way towards the front door. I swung forward helplessly, my head bonking against the girl in front of me, hers bonking against the support, my foot stamping someone's foot and the strap of my bag getting laced with an aunty's arm who yanked it away angrily. The bus had halted at a signal a good two hundred feet before the next bus stop. The uncle yelled “ili yamma! Hottogu bidatthe stoppu!”, foul-mouthed me and pushed me a little further just for kicks before he hopped off the bus. “Idu stop illa uncle!”, I protested to his back. He paid no attention, of course. Utterly taken aback, I stumbled back into a relatively comfortable posture. All eyes bore into me, and the women displayed the kind of clandestine joy that comes into Indian faces when they're about to thrash a random pick-pocket. And I just stood there, horrified, giving apologetic looks to angry aunties for the next two minutes, before I got off the bus.


Written on 30th September, '10