CONNECTIONS
I have a karmic connection with buses. I cannot explain it any other way. After more than 15 years of traveling on the good old red (now blue!!) buses of namma bengalooru, just when I though I had gotten rid of buses for good, I land here, in the land of plenty, and get reacquainted with them.
The powers that be had an inkling that I would be using the MTS buses. Barely a week after I got here, they put their combined heads together and changed all the bus numbers and the bus routes to boot, confounding my already addled brains. So instead of one, I now have to ride two buses just to get to work. And to twist the knife in a little deeper, the waiting time between connecting buses is so well coordinated that I can never hope to get to work on time unless I run to catch the buses.
My acclimatization process here had more to do with getting used to the buses in this city than anything else. Contrary to back home, the buses here run on time. Except when it is time to go home, when they invariably run late.
The early morning wait for the bathroom ensures that both the bus and I cross the road at the same time when the traffic lights change. Me, at a dead run, jumping over potholes and sundry other obstacles with élan, putting any Olympic hurdler worth her salt to shame. Mothers with strollers, dogs, sweet old ladies, grumpy kids, all get out of the way in a hurry when they see me coming. The bus driver plasters a smile on his face and wryly comments that I did good when I hop in just as the doors close. I wonder if he would recognize me, if one of these days, I am standing at the stop when the bus rolls in and I walk into the bus like the rest of the civilized world.
All said and done, I love the buses. I love the way a bus actually “kneels” to let people with disabilities get on. I love the way the drivers are always polite. I love watching the whole cross section of society that gets on and off of a bus. The gamut of people runs from the smartly dressed business woman to the old man who looks like he never takes a shower. This is really weird because the said old man always has a new book to read at the bus stop. I know, because I always try and read the title. He smiles when he sees my antics and I turn away shamefacedly. And nothing to beat the kind of conversations I have with the people waiting at the bus stops. Everything from desk top printing to the devastation caused by the tsunami. I do not think I would ever want to give up all of that in a hurry. And best of all, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that beats the rush of finally spotting the bus that takes you back home, after a long wait at the bus stop.
The powers that be had an inkling that I would be using the MTS buses. Barely a week after I got here, they put their combined heads together and changed all the bus numbers and the bus routes to boot, confounding my already addled brains. So instead of one, I now have to ride two buses just to get to work. And to twist the knife in a little deeper, the waiting time between connecting buses is so well coordinated that I can never hope to get to work on time unless I run to catch the buses.
My acclimatization process here had more to do with getting used to the buses in this city than anything else. Contrary to back home, the buses here run on time. Except when it is time to go home, when they invariably run late.
The early morning wait for the bathroom ensures that both the bus and I cross the road at the same time when the traffic lights change. Me, at a dead run, jumping over potholes and sundry other obstacles with élan, putting any Olympic hurdler worth her salt to shame. Mothers with strollers, dogs, sweet old ladies, grumpy kids, all get out of the way in a hurry when they see me coming. The bus driver plasters a smile on his face and wryly comments that I did good when I hop in just as the doors close. I wonder if he would recognize me, if one of these days, I am standing at the stop when the bus rolls in and I walk into the bus like the rest of the civilized world.
All said and done, I love the buses. I love the way a bus actually “kneels” to let people with disabilities get on. I love the way the drivers are always polite. I love watching the whole cross section of society that gets on and off of a bus. The gamut of people runs from the smartly dressed business woman to the old man who looks like he never takes a shower. This is really weird because the said old man always has a new book to read at the bus stop. I know, because I always try and read the title. He smiles when he sees my antics and I turn away shamefacedly. And nothing to beat the kind of conversations I have with the people waiting at the bus stops. Everything from desk top printing to the devastation caused by the tsunami. I do not think I would ever want to give up all of that in a hurry. And best of all, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that beats the rush of finally spotting the bus that takes you back home, after a long wait at the bus stop.
posted by newatthis at 5:02 PM
1 Comments:
hahah Reminds me of my college days....esp running after bus and me too was a avid hurdler heheh. And i always had to hear funny comments nd complains bot water dripping from hair from the bus mates as i always run to take a shower at the last moment ( a habit which i never got rid of till date) heheh. In our case( in kerala) one more interesting part bot te bus waiting were all the guys who used to hang around, some at the bus stops nd some in their bikes, as if its their sole duty to see that we get onto the bus. heheh . Those days were fun.
Readin u'r blog took me back to all those wonderful days in college:) Thank u.
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