Smile ek, memories anek

Masochism comes in many forms. And one of them is to take a bus from office to home at 6 pm to travel 30 kms. Never mind, the small stretch of Graphite India, notorious as India's biggest free parking facility.

The bus made its way out of the office through a narrow lane when London's cousin clouds hesitantly opened up after threatening from days and cheating the meteorology department for weeks. The traffic was threatening to swell. And I cursed myself for boarding a Volvo.  It wasn't because it was creaking but I could not smell the fresh scent of rain. The chill of AC only reached as far as the skin, unlike the breeze accompanying the rains which touch the soul.

Most other passengers were captive to their mobiles. Some to their wives who were perhaps travelling in another bus like them. Perhaps, they were talking about the pesky co worker in their office. Or the wife warning her husband not to look at the pretty new intern.Left to myself, I opened up a book.  It was only a few words before my mind just flew back to the window.

In the 90s, there were only a dozen cars in India and yet I thought there were different cars plying on the road.  Today, there are hundreds in the market and yet they all seem the same. White, black, red, yellow they all crawled ahead of us.With a laptop bag for company, these collar button clad drivers seemed to race ahead of my bus. And I continued staring aimlessly across the window, as in life. And another bus came and stood besides mine. Like freshly ironed uniformed school students standing next to each other for a Physical education drill.  Amid the passengers lost in their own worlds was a woman lost in her book. Fictional or otherwise.  In between this, my bus threatened to leave the other bus behind. But only for a few feet. Now it was their bus turn's to play jugalbandi. Her eyes never left the book and mine never her.

And when i was least expecting it, her eyes met mine. Or that is what I thought. But, she most probably saw the book in my hand and smiled. I thought she smiled at me. She smiled at the book. These books I tell you get loved more by women that we poor men get. Being the chivalrous gent, I returned back the smile with double the interest.

And she burst out laughing. As her bus started picking up speed, she showed the cover of her book through the window. We were reading the same book. Her bus left me with an embarrassed smile for the rest of the journey.

Tin Factory to Whitefield

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.