A bus journey... whatever

There was no seat left after i occupied one just behind a fat lala ji. There were still about 20 minutes for the bus to start. I opened my paperback and tried to read myself to sleep, but the hero of the novel had other plans. He was about to accidentally kill a policeman which was going to land him up in great trouble and change the course of the story. When the bus moved, i was deep into finding solutions for the murderer who would marry a beautiful bride in the end and totally missed the conductors requests, which were slowly becoming jibes, to buy the ticket. “Sahib ji, you have to pay extra money to use the benefits of a moving library”. I paid for the ticket amidst smiles from fellow passengers and a subduing glance from the conductor.

The bus was now moving at a steady pace but in the heat of Indian summer it causes greater discomfort as the loo strikes you with greater force causing more perspiration. Adding to my woes were a punjabi lady and her baby. The baby, which was genuinely discomforted due to the heat that was pouring out from every direction, would not stop wailing and the mother would not stop cursing the baby. Finally a solution was found out and the baby was thrust in my lap, as i was sitting on the corner seat. I tried not to feel embarrassed and started looking at all the colorful people from my land who were thrust in a bus which was made for carrying only half of them. My reverie was broken when the bus came to a sudden stop and half of the people fell over each while the other half cursed them.

An old man had come in front of the bus. The driver applied the breaks just in time and the old man was saved. The driver already much irritated by the heat could not control his temper and started throwing curses at the old man. “Sardaraa! why cant you just jump in a well if you want to die”, he said. The old man, who had actually wanted to board the bus, silently came to the other side and threw his potli inside followed by his walking stick. He somehow managed to drag his frail body inside the bus before the driver moved the bus impatiently. Angry looks were exchanged and driven by the punjabi spirit of not staying put, the driver tried to start an altercation. “Baba ji, why dont you buy a marooti if you are so uncomfortable.” The old man replied by just suggesting to the driver that he was unable to buy a marooti as he had paid all his money to the driver's mom last night. The driver was at a loss of words so he started to concentrate on the road again. Many of the passengers who were looking forward to an entertaining session of “punjabi courtesies” felt let down and the rest of them heaved a sigh of relief as a fight would have been too hard on there already tense nerves.

As for myself, I kept looking at the baby which was not mine but was comfortably asleep in my lap. I patted its back and waited sullenly for this ordeal to end.