Brian Fernandes describes his ride on a Mangaluru City Bus in the guise of a woman!
My name is Myra. I am a young woman, dressed modestly in jeans and a T shirt. Its twilight in an erratic monsoon season, and I am ensconced in a crowded covered bus stop, cringing from the splashing rain, and waiting eagerly for my bus to arrive, to go home after a hard day’s work at a premium eatery in Mangalore. My bus crawls toward me and stops a little away from the actual bus stop, blocking all the traffic behind it. I am compelled to, along with others, leave my comfort zone for the rain drenched street. I press button my umbrella in a hurry and rush to join a queue of 4 waiting to climb into the bus.
As the queue depletes quicker than I thought it would, I fold my umbrella in a hurry splashing water on all who can smell my perfume, and climb up the steep steps of the bus,. Unlike the intercity Volvo bus, the steps are more like a stairway to heaven, when all they really are, is an ascent into hell. As I step onto the first step, I hold onto the side bar of the doorway to prevent myself from sliding backwards. The bus started moving and I started swinging, quite like an orangutan in a forest, those lovely cuddly creatures you generally see gracing the discovery channel.
As the bus snails forward I am pulled up the steps by a guy who stands in the doorway, with the top of his six pack abs showing above the last buttoned button of his denim shirt, the 4th from the top. His half open shirt leaves uncovered a hairless muscled chest and a huge gold bracelet cum necklace that adds colour to his deep brown tan. His shirt is tucked into a low waist slim fit pant, around which hangs a 2 inch belt snugly fastened.
The guy is reasonably good looking, his crew cut, piercing brown eyes and rippling biceps adding to his aura. He has a pen strategically perched on his right ear, and in his left hand. I notice all of this in a jiffy, without actually looking at him. I reach the top step and this guy shifts his position to stand in front of me, to ensure that I don’t fall back down again. I have a tough time not leaning into him, and not falling backwards as the bus starts, with a jerk. I am now looking at the top of his crew cut and mentally comparing his 6 pack abs with Shah Rukh’s 8 pack in Happy New Year.
I am now at the front of a serpentine sardinish queue, and I am witness to the heroism of our captain and driver. He negotiates the Bendore well junction, with deft and sharp turns of the steering wheel, using the palm of his sole and heel of his palm to good effect, one to jam the brakes in the midst of a buttery two wheeler population and pedestrians in a hurry to get to the other side, and on the center of the steering wheel respectively, respectfully, but loudly and continuously making the vehicle yell at people to get out of the way…Mr. Higgs boson, the God particle is on the way…
Not entirely his fault though, the road during evening return rush hour is so chaotic, that the policeman posted there can only cover his mouth with the thin pretty surgical gauze handed out to them by the powers that be, pull his bowler down into his face, cross the road and watch from the sidelines, much like the lineman in the FIFA world cup. Occasionally however, he does cross into the minefield to ensure, at great risk to his life and liberty, that the great Mangalorean bus trick fulfills its promise!
The kilometres crawl and time flies. The bus is now at the next stop on its roundabout journey, from and to the state bank of India near the DC’s office, and there are about 20 passengers waiting to get on, an equal number of gents and ladies. Even as it grinds to a stop, I can see a clutch of people performing the bus jump, the athletic event where you jump and run in the direction in which the bus is moving – so as not to trip over yourself.
The gents are shooed to the back door, and the gentle ladies, like me, were welcomed through the front door by handsome crew cut. I am pushed further back into the bus, how, I am still not clear, and I don’t think either Einstein, Ramanuja or Newton will ever figure it out. As I am pressed back into the middle of the bus, inch by excruciating inch, it restarts with a jerk and I ram into a guy in front of me before I steady myself. He turns around and glares at me. I say “ sorry”, but I notice, he is not. I get the feeling that he quite liked the feeling. I worry about my handbag which hangs in front of me on a long strap. I hold on to the overhead rod for dear life even as my left hand protects my body and hand bag in which I have stuffed my parasol. I resolve to pursue my resolution to learn to ride a two wheeler – if my parents agree, in the near future, to fund one for me…. I know I have to battle my own demons before I battle theirs.
Another two stops, and the same chaos. Familiarity with the route, experience and a glimpse of the external environment through the flapping tarpaulin, tell me I am nearing my destination. I am glad that I have survived the journey, nay enjoyed the stress of it. I admire my gumption and perseverance. I am in one piece, but my shoulder nymph lodes have started to explode.
I now have a new problem on hand… how to push forward in an environment in which everything and everyone is moving in the opposite direction. To me it seems like a complex physics problem, and physics was never my favourite subject. I realize that I cannot wait until the destination arrives and I start to weave in and out of the serpentine queue, inch by inch, often holding on to the overhead rod with both my hands.
I realized I could not wait for the last minute and started moving forward an inch at time. Somehow I reach the front door, and as the bus slows further (it was already slow because of the traffic) to a stop. I am pushed out of the bus in a rush, that in the end I am glad to be free of.
I am too tired to walk, and I decide to take an auto to cover the short distance to my home. I am a cautious girl, always have been, and I do not want to haggle with an auto driver about his right to change (sic) once I reach my home. So I decide to check if I have the right amount of change. I open my handbag to take out my little red purse, in which I keep my daily accrual of wealth, which is not much really. I search among the items of makeup and a million other little things, but can’t find it. It is then that I realize that I have been purse picked. By this time the bus has already moved on and I am left holding the bag…literally.
I go over the journey again, my suspicion fixed on the man who didn’t look sorry, when I said sorry. People saw a wry smile on my face as I felt sorry for him – at best he can have a decent vegetarian meal with the loot. I forgave him, his trespasses and walked home, my resolve to get a two wheeler stronger than ever.
(This article was published in the recent issue of Karnataka Today Magazine)
