Even if it was only a couple of days back, my memory fails
to register the bus number through which I travelled. Being written Kannada
challenged, but adequately comfortable in the tongue I asked the friendliest
looking face in the bus, Whitefieldu hogattha? This reminds me of my first
years in Bangalore, when I first asked a shy “Mathikere hogthara?” to a
rather bemused commuter. Much more assertive now, I received a rather warm but slightly
hurried reply, “Hoggathe banni” (Goes,
come in) from the conductor.
I
trudged inside and sat comfortably in one of the first gents’ seat in the
bus. Those familiar with the topography
of a BMTC Parisara Vahini bus would identify the first gents’ seat peculiarly
housing another seat opposite it. Like it or otherwise even if it most often
the latter, one would be forced to appreciate the half shaved face in front.
The situation is even more acute to the minority population which does not have
the luxury to fiddle with a Whatsapp or a Temple Run. I had to make do watching the temple of an
old man. After multiple failed attempts by passengers to proxy the conductor’s
whistle, the bus slowly entered into the road only to stop again with all the
other vehicles in the road. At least,
the bus had company. A panting school boy boarded the bus and sat down with a
violent thrust that only tired people are capable of. Gopalan High School, his
uniform read and the pencil moustache hinted at the lad studying in pre University
College. This age is better remembered for its second crush and the first one
sided love affair than the Irodov problems which most of us fail to understand,
leave alone remember.
“Pass thorsi, ticket thogoli” said
the conductor and nonchalantly walked behind much before I could dig out my
pass from the bag. As any experienced commuter would testify, the first
announcement by the conductor is only for commuters to keep their wares ready
and sit with a 10 rupees waiting for the conductor to come back. So, did he. He
scantly seemed keen to look at my face in the pass. After punching a few holes, he looked at the
school boy’s face which exactly meant, “Your turn”! The boy in turn removed a
50 rupee note. These bigger notes always
tend to bring out the growl in the conductor and he yelled a very predictable “chillare kodi”. Apology written over all his face, the boy
looked around in his pockets to find none. The conductor wouldn’t budge on his
demand. It was his territory after all. And he walked away towards the ladies
section, with an air of having conquered his little duel with the little boy.
The ruffled boy flashed his 50 rupee note to an onlooker who was eying it all.
Not me, someone else who replied a polite no. He then enquired the man standing
next to him, who twitched his lips. The desperate boy now looked at the man
next to me. “Illa”, he said and
stretched his hands deep into his pockets to pluck a 10 rupee note and handed
it over to the boy. The boy was totally puzzled. The conductor just walked by. The
boy mumbled something to the man who assured him he didn’t want the money back.
The conductor was totally ashamed by his high handed behaviour and tried
explaining that this was how he ensured commuters carry many ding-dong sound
making coins in their packets. As the conductor left for his next round, the
boy once again dug deep into his bag. And this time, his hands did not return empty.
One,
two, three,…. seven of them. He removed
mint chocolates and forced it into the hands of the benevolent donor who was
grinning from ear to ear. And so were all of us onlookers. Sometimes, good
things happen in Tin Factory and Whitefield too.
