The Bus

The bus crawled along the busy road, bullying its way through motorcycles, autos and cars. The driver was clearly aware it overflowed with passengers; he could see some of his braver countrymen hanging from the windows. It tilted to one side like a leaning tower, an extra rider or two enough to topple it. Yet, neither the driver nor the conductor made any effort to lighten their load. Students, workers and housewives jostled for place inside; there were only a fifth as many seats as there were passengers. Elbows, knees, fists and ferocious glares were just some of the weapons employed as they clung on to their hard fought positions. There was barely enough space to breathe. Bodies rubbed against each other and sweat intermingled; the nausea was almost tangible. Public transport in these parts was not for the weak of heart or the claustrophobic.



Leaning back on his seat, Sailen sighed and looked out the window. He always made it a point to arrive at the bus station at least twenty minutes early and get a seat near the window; there was no chance of him surviving any of these journeys without a source of ventilation nearby. The air from the outside might oscillate (often with terrifying inconsistency) between remarkably refreshing and undiluted stench, but he was glad it gave his lungs something to pump in and out of his body. The toxic from the outside was not life-threatening, the claustrophobia from the inside was.



He had no choice but to travel by bus, his measly salary did not allow him a car and he was afraid of bikes. He often thought of abandoning his job for a more lucrative position in the private sector. The pay, as was the case everywhere, would be many times what he was presently earning and he might finally afford the many luxuries in life he felt were his due. But the strain was too much, he would tell himself, the toll it would take on his soul could not be compensated with monetary gains. “Just look at what it’s done to Manick,” was the prompt reply whenever he brought the topic up with his friends.



“Aiyaa!!” a voice screeched from below him, taking him by surprise. Someone was wailing on the outside. He adjusted his glasses to get a better look. It was a beggar woman with an infant in her hands, travelling among the bikers clogged in the traffic. From where he sat he could see about half a dozen women like her sweeping through the congested road, each with an infant wrapped in a ragged piece of cloth, each praising the riders for their generosity even before they gave the women anything. “Dharma Prabhu!” the one below him wept at a biker. Lord of Justice. “My baby and I haven’t eaten in three days! We are starving! Please give us something!”



The man on the bike looked ahead, refusing to acknowledge her existence. As she cringed and pleaded beside his bike, his eyes remained fixed on the traffic before him. With each fresh plea she made he seemed to get stiffer, working increasingly hard to make it obvious he was trying to ignore her. The more energy he spent on it, the more he began to resemble a statue, his chest not contracting and expanding, his arms welding into the handles, his face a frozen mask. As the minutes went by and the woman continued to cry to him, Sailen thought he could literally see the transformation from human to object. It was only when its eyes became moist (not from guilt but from trying not to blink) did the statue become a human again, at which point he finally turned his head to face her. “Get lost.”



The woman stopped crying and muttered something under her breath. Sailen could not catch what she said over the noise of the traffic, but if the reaction of the biker was anything to go by, it was venomous. He ducked under the window as she turned from the bike to look at the bus. Beggars rarely approached buses since their passengers were themselves folks trying not to part with their money, but Sailen was not taking chances. It was only when he heard her cry somewhere behind the bus that he straightened in his seat. He used to feel guilty in his younger days about doing this, but had grown used to it now. His co-passengers were too busy nudging each other to notice him. He continued to observe the progress the other beggar-women were making.



They were like clones, imitating each other in their mannerisms; even the praises showered on their potential benefactors were the same. After being either abused or ignored by most of the bikers, they approached the cars and autos. Cars were a successful source of income for beggars; the rich of the city having found that alms soothed their conscience. Money earned exploiting the common man came with secret guilt. Passing these women a few rupees, a negligent amount for whoever could afford a car, provided them an escape from this guilt. “It is our duty to help those who aren’t as fortunate as us,” they would be able to tell their friends at lavish parties “just this morning I bought this poor lady and her baby a meal. The grateful tears from her eyes brought happy tears to mine.” The rich friends listening would nod their heads in approval. “Yes, this city is lucky to have people like us who give so much back to the community.”



Sailen hated the rich and the poor of Chennai. They seemed to infest the place with their begging bowls and imported cars, starving babies and five-star buffets. They were both parasitic in his opinion; they were too accustomed to living off money taken from other people. The beggar parades mutilated limbs and malnourished infants, masterfully converting instinctive sympathy to money. The rich man plays similar tricks behind his desk, endlessly plotting the conversion of citizens to consumers. A faithful government employee for a decade, the idea that his beloved middle class was being robbed by both its neighbours infuriated him.



He glanced at his watch; he would make it to work on time. The plight of the passengers was still as nauseating as it was when the journey began. He noticed a pack of students who had surrounded a lady near the middle of the bus, probably a house wife out to buy vegetables. Packed inside like a jar of marbles, the young men were busy rubbing their bodies against hers. Though there really was no space to avoid physical contact in the bus, there was something deliberate in the actions of the students that gave it away. It seemed, when Sailen looked harder, that while one brushed on her middle-aged body, the others would back away by an inch or so. The scene reminded him of a pack of hyenas taking turns attacking a deer. The lady squirmed with discomfort but could do nothing to make them stop; they were all so tightly shut inside that nobody would believe it was being done on purpose. Biting her lips, she sighed and shut her eyes. The students were not looking at each other, playing innocent passengers in an overcrowded bus. Only one of them smiled as he saw her close her eyes and submit to her fate. He leaned on her completely, rubbing the entire length of his body on hers and breathing into her neck.



Sailen looked away.