On the Bus

The bus crawled along the busy road, bullying its way through motorcycles and cars. The driver was aware it overflowed with people; he could see some of his braver passengers hanging from the windows. It tilted to one side like a leaning tower, an extra rider or two enough to topple it, but neither he nor the conductor made an effort to lighten their load, this was quite routine.  There was only a fifth as many seats as there were passengers - fierce jostling for position was the least they could expect. Elbows, knees, fists and ferocious glares were just some of the weapons employed as the bus-toughened travellers clung on to their hard-fought positions. There was barely enough space to breathe. Bodies rubbed against each other and sweat intermingled; the nausea was almost tangible. Public transport here was, is and will be, an option not recommended for the weak of heart.

Swami sighed and looked out the window. He had always made it a point to arrive at bus stations hours early and get a seat near the window; there was no chance of him surviving a journey through these parts without a source of ventilation nearby. Even toxic fumes from the traffic outside couldn’t be as life-threatening as the claustrophobia within. 

A voice screeched nearby, taking him by surprise. Someone was wailing on the outside. He peeped out to get a better look. It was a beggar woman with an infant in her hands, travelling among the bikers clogged in the traffic. From where he sat he could see about half a dozen women like her sweeping through the congested road, each with an infant wrapped in a ragged piece of cloth. “My baby and I haven’t eaten in three days! We are starving! Please give us something!” They were like clones, imitating each other in their mannerisms; even the praises showered on their potential benefactors were the same. After being either abused or ignored by most of the bikers, they would soon approach the cars, which were a more successful source of income for them; the rich having long found that alms soothed their conscience.

Swami watched in fascination as the beggar woman attempted to work her craft on a middle aged man on a scooter, who seemed a seasoned veteran of such encounters himself and visibly unwilling to give in. The man looked straight ahead as she pleaded inches away from him, refusing to acknowledge her existence, let alone her suggestion that he part with his money to help nourish her child. As she cringed beside his scooter, the resolve that his eyes must remain fixed on the traffic ahead only seemed to strengthen. With each fresh plea she made, he stiffened further, to the point where he gradually began to resemble a statue; his chest not contracting and expanding, his arms welding themselves into the handles, his face a frozen mask. As the minutes went by and the woman continued to cry to him, Swami thought he could literally see the transformation from human to object. It was only when its eyes became moist (not from guilt but from trying not to blink) did the statue become a human again, at which point he finally turned his head to face her.

“Get lost!”

The woman muttered something which, going by the expression of scooter-man, was a surprise even to him. Swami took a deep breath and returned to the overcrowded chaos inside.  


-Nilan