The Bus

By Ishan Jadhav

Late in the evening, the office lights flickered along the glazed passageway from where the man would leave the premises. There was no one on that floor and a hollow silence crept in as usual, the tube lights on the ceiling above staircases attracted moths and his his eyes dazed as he looked at it. The tiring and dull steps lead him outside the building where all the noise was, of work and pestilence, sweat and swag, and the half hearted spirit of “ going-on” which echoed throughout the roads in the city. All events of the day played back and forth in the minds of the commuters as they dragged their steps on the concrete roads, dodging manholes, where the devil might be calling them. The dim orange lights of the street shone through the swinging braches of hibiscus and it’s shadows danced on the footpath, where a few mongrels were busy in transcendental meditation. A ghostly solitude which lingered on that street, was the trademark of the neighbourhood, wherein even the screams and loudspeakers were somehow silenced as they reached the nearest person. The man swiftly moved across a few cars onto a neglected footpath where he stepped upon dried leaves and brushed aside shattered pieces of glass as he walked noiselessly. The corners of the footpath had nourished a few mushrooms the last season, which had now shrivelled and crumbled, from that point, the man could see his office building with the white light still flickering in the dark corridor. He boarded the Bus after some minutes of walking, from a bus stop that could not be distinguished from a hovel, it’s rusty framework- painted poorly with red was weathered, no-one could sit on it in the nights when the street Arabs played cards behind it, which happened too often.

Slipped the Bus through the noiseless neighborhood and last his office building, rolling upon and crushing whatever debris that adorned it’s path, honking a jaywalker or an animal that was careless, breaking the silence of the usual sinking day that would, in the later hours become somewhat of a fluffy bed that would absorb the tiredness of the entire day. The Bus passed through many a great, affluent neighbourhoods and equally poor slums. At this part of the night, raat-rani flowers were activated, whose fragrance lingered along link roads, mixed with the aroma of sweat and dust-which was raised by the moving bus. Through the same breeze swirled the smell of the last few samosas tht were being prepared and the jingling sound of cars that seemed as if they were lightyears away. Tumbling came the conductor, managing his round belly and walking like a drunkard, brusquely gave the man his ticket after his side-bag devoured a few coins. The conductor went back to his spot again to chat with the driver softly in the darkness. The next stop was in an impoverished place where the road was considerably narrow just like the perceptions of people residing over there, getting through that stretch required patience , a strong will and purpose, but for an empty bus it was easy, easy in the times of idle leisure of the day when multitude of thoughts jogged across the minds and the best ones were enough to put them to sleep. A different kind of sleep, which neither needed pillows nor blankets , but jobs and an ideology that would keep them warm at night. Violent awakenings from these slumbers were cyclic , happening each time these promises were broken, only to be replaced by new promise makers who would break it in a matter of years anyway.

The bus stopped for a moment and a woman with red clothes entered the bus. She stepped in calmly easily and sat down far ahead of the man, from where the darkness of the bus began. The conductor fed his side-bag a few coins on behalf of the woman, handing her the ticket , and again went near the driver to resume his conversation . The woman rose up , languidly, with unnerving ease and walked hither and yon the gangway, stamping her feet on purpose. The man didn’t look at her , he just observed the noises that filled his ears, fir his bag too had some papers he wished not to remove as of now. The woman was unobserved by the conductor and the driver too, as they mingled on in some talk in the darkness where their figures were shrouded. The woman then, began vandalizing the bus , breaking it’s windows, scratching off it’s seats, pouring dirty water all over. The bus moved on along with its passengers, incognizant of the acts of the woman. The ones inside – the woman , the man , the conductor and driver were in their own worlds, paying no heed to the lady whatsoever. This commotion , however attracted attention of the people outside the bus who watched with an intense passion even at this part of the night, yelling in acceptance, thumping the sides of the bus while running alongside. Strange was this ruckus, that had charged the crowds outside but did not move those inside. Similar is the journey of original ideologies which travel through time in the same bus of course but without touching each other, independent of each other, just moving on till the destination was reached. When it descended down from the bus, it could only be seen through the window – being left out like the street lamps or the trees.

A wiry man wearing checkered shirt and safari shorts entered the bus on the next stop, carrying a flowery cloth bag with him , he looked old and was going bald from the crown. A sense of dignity followed him and manifested in every action of his. The exact opposite he seemed of the woman, patient too, he seemed to be, as he gently tried to undo the wrongs committed by the woman , while the latter was still ablaze in the flames of her own expression. He took out a cloth from his backpack and started to clean the stains of her fanaticism, with an emotionless face . The bus moved through the empty streets- devoid of any cars, but scattered with a few people here and there, cheering loudly at whatever was going on in the bus. The trees at both the sides of the road increased and sheltered the bus from the serene moonlight, as it went deeper and deeper onto that road where the streetlights were scarce and everyone on that road spoke to one another through one language – of darkness. Trees slider across the top and sides of the bus, forcing a few leaves to fall off , on the ground to be trampled by another vehicle. The wiry man with safari shorts , removed his spectactles and put it atop his nose, he also removed a tambourine from his bag which he began playing as soon as it saw the light of the bus. In the silence of the bus, and if it’s surroundings, the beats of his tambourine were the only sound except the fluttering of leaves outside or the baying if dogs. The lady by the time was drained if her energy and her movements were sluggish with sweat all over her face and neck . She sat down on the seat which she had destroyed and started looking out. The man was playing the tambourine elegantly, knit eyebrows and an erect neck , moving back and forth along the gangway as he was doing so . Each finger he beat against the instrument felt delicately staged a little too fragile perhaps, were his feet that stomped against the ground. A cool breeze came from some of the windows and it moved his baggy clothes, he looked at the window and threw his tambourine out of it in a fraction of seconds.

The lady in the red, duly exhausted by her acts got down on the next stop whilst the man was sitting ,observing and the wiry man with the tambourine was still playing vigorously – shaking his head while doing so. Now the bus had five occupants – the tambourine man, the conductor, driver and the man. The man who had left the office before boarding the bus, had, by now , written many pages of notes of what he had seen and heard and felt in the bus , right from the beginning. The tambourine man having thrown aside the tambourine now started playing a mouth organ, with the same skill. A new idea or a philosophy excites the crowd at first, in which they dance and are intoxicated with its rules and the leaders who create it. These ideas will get down at one stop or the other when their ticket expires, it will leave its residue on the bus, which the vehicle will carry through the ages. The vehicle won’t stop , it will go on and on, through bad , good and the best surroundings , without evr deteriorating it’s state. The vehicle rolls on irrespective of what the people outside are doing nether they curse it or praise it, be a passenger in its journey, or just be a witness. Being in the ‘bus’ is what matters , the light emanating from the bus draws the attention of people on the road , whose eyes gleam at sight of it, and they show their children that bus as it goes by, stray dogs see a mysterious object passing by- radiating light and try to chase it with all their might until their limbs fail them. Running men try to catch the bus, when they are getting late, but it speeds past them once It has the specified number of passengers. The conductor darga himself across the gangway and distributes tickets after feeding his side-bag as the chatter if the crowd in the bus overpowers that of the conductor and the driver, people will board the bus, they will get down, some will leave a positive impact the others - a blot, but somehow they will decide where the bus will go even though it’s not in their power to start it or even stop it , but they can manoeuvre the vehicle in very subtle ways. When the herd of new commuters stepped into the bus through the rear door, the man who had written pages of notes stepped down through the front door, leaving behind his notes for the ‘new' passengers of the

‘bus'.

By Ishan Jadhav