Almost an hour at the bus stop

The last time I had to write something about an hour in a bus stop was in seventh standard, where I was supposed to make up some excuse like ‘the bus I wanted just left two minutes ago and then weave an imaginative story of interesting things that unfolded there while I waited for the next bus which would have come fifty five minutes behind schedule, otherwise it would prove dreadfully unfavourable to my essay. I never imagined at that time, that I would actually ever have the totally unwanted experience of actually spending well, not an hour, but some forty minutes at a bus stop. I wasn’t waiting for any bus at the bus stop, but imagining many ways to trouble my (I flinch to call him that) friend, who had, in his extreme foolishness told me that a library where we were both members of, opened at 9:30. He was wrong by an entire half an hour. I, on a rare occasion of punctuality, reached the place fifteen minutes before 9:30. And found out the correct timings. After I finished cursing my (flinch) friend, I was left with two choices, going out of the building and finding something to occupy myself for three fourths of an hour, or sitting on the posh Mittal towers staircase and looking like a fish in the display counter of a jewellery store (out of the water is a phrase too common for my liking). I, being totally unlike my (flinch) friend, took the wiser option of going out. Once out, I looked left, then looked right. Don’t think I wanted to cross the road; coming to this college everyday has given me the knack of avoiding traffic without going through my kindergarten lessons of looking at both sides before acting like a chicken whose actions people unnecessarily question. I had no intention of crossing the road and In fact, I had no intention at all. I was in a state of total lack of direction. I don’t know why I looked left and then right, but I spotted the bus stop in the process. The bus stop suddenly fell into place. That’s just an expression, it was built, not dropped there, but the thing is, it was an ideal place to sit. I wouldn’t look out of place, and it was a perfect place to wile away time, pretending to wait for some bus. The funny thing is, there was a fish in the window of a jewellery store near the bus stop. Well, it was actually, a gold shark with a ruby-like eye, but that’s the closest you can ever get to get a fish in the jewellery store, that is unless your uncle owns a jewellery store, and you set the fish up just because you are hell bent on proving me wrong. Anyway, the bus stop being more or less on Nariman point, with tall executive buildings, renowned (not yet open) libraries and the world’s largest collection of Chinese snack corners outside China, the bus stop I was sitting was a pretty busy one. But being busy did not imply that it was interesting, because watching people get out every single time the bus stops gets very boring after seeing it about one time. I wondered where all the sheep and cows under the boughs were, now that I had all the time to stand and stare. That’s when actually I felt for the first time that life was indeed so full of care. It was so very boring. (I would have liked to use a stronger word like ‘damn’ instead of the ‘very’ in the previous sentence, but decided that it wouldn’t have been aligned with the cultured sentiments of this publication). Two men were chatting away about their bosses in one corner of the bus stop, and I lost out the more juicier statements as I have limited understanding capability of Gujrati. A young man sitting beside me was reading a textbook of some higher educational level to which I have not been introduced, and it had complicated pictures of some valve used in a chemical plant. It had the top view, the side view and a detailed view, and was labelled with words like “regulating pedal clutch”. But that was about all my dwindled interest would allow me to see. I reduced to the regular pastime of people patiently waiting for something to happen, and began looking at my watch every 3.64 microseconds. Ever heard of the saying a watched pressure cooker never whistles? Obviously you haven’t, but the never-boiling pot is another one of those many things in my hate list. Well, if there was just one thing that I learnt after spending almost an hour at the bus stop, I realised how long it takes for the second needle to journey across the six degrees of a clock-face. I learnt the value of a second, and the good thing was that I did not have to find an Olympic silver-medallist to reveal the value to me. And there was still a good healthy twenty minutes left. The people continued to pour out off whichever bus happened to stop at the bus stop, which was every single that went past it. I know that doesn’t make sense, but it does; don’t think I am Oscar Wilde, at least I don’t believe that a true friend stabs you in the front… With the lack of anything better to do, I bought some groundnuts and started eating them. My eyes were by now following the regular routine of looking left, my watch, right, my watch, and were only disturbed every few minutes when a bus stopped, which was no surprise because I was at a bus stop. Having totally concentrated on the second needle, I now actually looked at the time and noticed that I had only ten minutes of eyeball exercising left, and a wave of hope washed over me, and I resolved never to be so bored again ever in my life, and whenever any free time presented itself, I would do something more useful than finding out the value of a second and cooking up totally revolting expressions involving pressure cookers and fish. Surprisingly enough (though not as much as finding a fish in a jewellery store), the I’m-bored-and-have-nothing-interesting-to-do-time, (or in other words, leisure) came soon enough, and that evening, I did not have to force out any creative juices from wherever they were stored, and had a lot of at least remotely presentable material at my disposal, so I decided to write an article, and this is it.

 -Aditya MJ

First time in a Mumbai local

 

 

The first time I sat in the local train alone was when I was going to my cousin’s place in Santa Cruz. I stood in line for the usual what felt like eighteen hours, and got the ticket from Thane to Santa Cruz. They told me that there would be a lot of rush and that I couldn’t even get in, leave alone get a seat et cetera, the usual stories that are associated with train travelling experience of Mumbai. I caught a ‘dheemi’ local to CST, and to my surprise, got in easily, and got a place to sit too. The train started and I was a bit confused, because people had warned me to wait for the next train if there was too much of a rush. There were a few people around, but one couldn’t exactly call it a rush. Fortunately for me, a person noticed my yellow ticket and asked whether I was travelling using that ticket. As things turned out, I was a ticket less traveller in the first class compartment. I am now a criminal.

Fortunately, I was able to get off in Mulund, against the flow of the people, and then I saw why all their warnings made perfect sense. All the things that I had heard were not half able to describe what it actually was like. I had to catch the next train, and when I was in, I found that someone’s elbow was in my gut, someone’s face pushed hard against my back, and I even wondered if I was standing the right way up. There was this big weight on my chest. That was when the most interesting phase of the journey began. Strictly speaking, it was an experience that justifies every single bit of everything that you have heard about it in about eighteen degrees higher than the highest hyperbolic manner of speaking that you hear it in. I stood just behind the door, and could count no less than twelve heads in front of me, all leaning outside the door, and one person’s hand was obstructing the sign saying that it was dangerous to do what he was doing. Then there was the nose-picking, ear-clearing, eye-goop cleaning, sneezing and other even more undesirable public displays of personal grooming constantly going on in the background, and if you stared at them, they glared right back at you and looked as if they dared you to say anything about it. Then they would put in double the efforts at doing whatever they were doing. Someone sneezed, and the phlegm flew off his nose and landed on the elbow of a person leaning outside the door, and he didn’t notice anything, as he was busy entertaining himself by studying aerodynamics in great detail by cupping his hand and holding it outside the train, perpendicular to his body. I was squeamish after I looked at the gleaming bit of white liquid on his hands that reflected the bright sun outside.

It was a sight that I couldn’t get rid off till Kurla, when a huge chunk of the population got down, and another huge chunk got on. I was vaguely excited about it all, but I don’t know why. I asked someone which side of the train Matunga came, and had to push my way across, hearing a lot of swear words in the process. The train had not even stopped before I found myself on the platform. I had just stood there, suddenly all these people had just got down, and they took me with them.

At Matunga, I went across what they call the Z bridge, which, as I found out, is actually shaped like the letter M, and descended to the Matunga road station, and saw as much of a crowd, if not more, over there. Somehow, I squeezed myself in, thoroughly thrilled and asked someone which side Santa Cruz was going to come. All the people instantly started shouting and urged me to get down. I had climbed into the train going towards Churchgate, and geared myself up to shove my way across again. But it was unnecessary, as soon as I began, people stopped me and told me they wanted to get down at the next station too. It’s a common enough thing now, but I was frankly amazed to see half the train empty itself at Dadar.

From there, I caught another train to Santa Cruz, and this was less crowded, and I got in. I looked around, and there was just this one place to sit, and I wondered why, as there were many people standing, and waiting for a seat. I should have known something was wrong, but I asked my inner voice to shut up, and went and sat there. As soon as I sat down, a slight ripple of laughter went through the people around me. A Gujrati woman in a yellow sari with gaudy and revolting green peacocks on its border said “aa to beisee gayo!” in a jolly, amused inflection, that you see in friends who are bursting with mirth just before they tell a punch line of a joke. I cannot effectively translate that into English, but what it meant was that for some reason, I wasn’t supposed to sit there. I came to know this reason when I got up at Khar road, and noticed that someone had vomited below the seat on which I was sitting…

I know that you won’t care for the following bit of information, but I have to conclude in a tone that is positive at the least to me. I reached Santa Cruz, safely, with no nasty injuries or loss, except for the cap of my water bottle, which happened at Dadar.

-Aditya MJ