An Interesting Bus Journey

Sometimes I wonder what boredom can drive people to do….it frustrates, or else, just like it has done with me today, may prompt one to observe one’s surroundings acutely and ponder on it, and finally, without too much hope in the heart urge one to write something on it.

My life in a nutshell, provides me regular thrill in waking up groggy headed (as if suffering from perpetual hangover). I then drag myself round to do away with the daily routine, which I have mastered with much dexterity in accomplishing in a commendably negligible span of time. Let us not go into the unnecessary unpleasantries and move on to the more exciting part of me walking down the dust veiled street after stuffing myself with breakfast and the mandatory vitamin pill. Yes, it seems to be the only reliable thing that has the power of actually pulling me through the tediously fascinating days of my life. My short trip from my home to the bus stand never fails to give me the uncanny excitement of having to pull out my handkerchief from the piles of junk which are stuffed inside my bag as I see the rickety buses rushing towards me and blowing dust all over the world triumphantly. Sometimes I succeed just in the nick of time to cover my nostrils, and sometimes pitifully I fall at their mercy. The danger zone is crossed as I curl my hand to my forehead, subconsciously at the Shib Mondir- the LOC of dusty and pure air zone. Here I face the frugal threat of a not-so-mentionable looking lady sweeping the road with an eye catching piece of log, attached to which are other thinner sticks which seem to gnaw at the pothole ridden road with vengeance. I have noticed in the short span of time, without actually being rude, the lackluster and futile attempt of hers in being a true messenger of the Municipality, trying to promise the good citizens a cleaner environment.

The rest 30 seconds remaining to my destination- the bus stop, along with time added for waiting there, my thoughts are always occupied by a queer determination that rises out of a mere glimpse I had taken inside my bag in the process of hunting for my handkerchief.

“I really need to clean my bag!!”..if not for the quick rescue of the poor piece of cloth, then surely for prevention of spondilosis. It may be destiny that stops my counting of the things I’d seen in my bag. The 3C/1 rumbles along, emerging from the horizon..like a rescuer….Umbrella, Tiffin box, chewing gum packets, a few CDs, cream, worthless visiting cards, 3 earrings w/o their pairs..atrocious!!!...and the conductor ushers me in.

Lucky enough to squeeze between two moderately sized ladies, I make a quick survey of the known faces in the bus. Yes! That irritable French cut belonging to an equally irritable face propped up on a worthless existence of body is busy flashing smiles at his co-passengers. A regular at the 8.50 bus just like me. Somehow this is one of the appalling encounters among many to come that I have to encounter everyday from the bus stop itself. I have a particular hunch that this 5’8’’ existence of flesh and bones wants to attract my attention. There are probably some people on earth who incur the wrath of “singles” like me just by the virtue of their unassumingly friendly looks rather than their actions. I begin to feel sorry…the Mother Teresa inside me awakens. The bus has trudged along to Gariahat. I look away to find another regular scrutinizing my chappal. Utterly self conscious I satisfy myself that my not-so-remarkable feet are not looking too hideous. Then I too start on examining her attire, the next person and the person next to her, which is invariably the “amicable lady”- friend to all the bus riders (this, and every morning) and particularly attached to the irritating French cut existence. I learn that staring can be a very harmful and contagious practice.

The singularly exciting trip continues punctuated by occasional glances at the watch. Often I try to amuse myself by guessing the time at important junctions like Deshapriya Park, Rashbehari Jn, Hajra Crossing (which always has to duel with Exide with regard to importance).Finally the refreshing activity of taking a long look at the Victoria Memorial and then deboarding at the Chowringhee.

I alight on the dust ridden road. A quick glance at the lush greenery of Elliot Park provides some relief from the scorching heat that is beating mercilessly down on me from a sun fresh at work. I cross the road with a sudden smile as I remember the day’s shows that may be lined up at Elliot Park under the cozy shelter of the shrubberies that had a few minutes before soothed my retina.

The thought pattern is broken as the cars whiz past me and I have to cover my nose again (just in case you were wondering about my obsession with this, I suffer from acute dust allergy). The next couple of minutes are a mad rush to our respective offices. Seems like a part of Manhattan being transported to our greasy footpaths festooned with cover pages of magazines of all genres. We rush on. But with regard to self amusement I never cease. I overtake the person in front, then have my next target and continue this way, till a little exhausted I enter my peaceful work premises. Here I am greeted by a courteous and assuring “Good Morning” or a condensed version of the same –“Morning”. The days (most of them) that I get to hear the latter I keep climbing the stairs thinking how appropriate the phrase was. True! Wherein lies the goodness of every morning that we face? Then why should the hypocrisy of “Good” precede the simple and crisp “Morning”!!

An uneventful day approaches after a short prayer in front of the Goddess Durga. It’s a uniquely well crafted piece of Dokra Art from Orissa. I smugly settle down in my black chair and log on into my system. I have an inspirational wallpaper, which I hardly notice, thereby bypassing the sole reason for painstakingly putting it up there in the first place…to inspire myself every morning. On occasional days though, when I am in a particularly venomous mood, I feel like beating up the lady who undauntingly tries to motivate me from the desktop. However, I soon proceed to the fantastic job of taking out the voucher print, which always, somehow in an unexplained manner, seems to rejuvenate Buddha da.

The day rolls on with my payments and reimbursements smiling at me from within the folds of the folders. I carry on, regularly disturbed by the nuisance created by A.G Bell.

And soon it is 2 p.m one of the two magic hours in the life of a person in service. No awards for guessing that the other one is at 6.30p.m.

Lunch is an excuse to go to my favourite place in the entire office-the Terrace. It’s a vast open expanse where I can stay undisturbed. I stand under the sky, in the soothing shade of a huge coconut tree. I can look out on to the manicured greens of the Kenilworth, and the people working there. A couple of tourists enjoying beer, a waiter in his starched white carrying a tray from one end to the other. I always wonder why he/she has to be so immaculate even when no one is watching. I have a hunch that if I were in his/her place I’d surely do a tap dance or sing a tribal song en route to the more sophisticated parts of my corporate existence. Wasn’t that my only secret liaison with freedom? Well, I guess not all people think like me. And there ARE people who are soothed by the bondage of restrained behaviour. I can see the thick foliage of the mango tree bearing its green fruit. Sujon Da tells me that the storm will take away 40% of the aam and I am instantly transported to my school days when we used to study “Pother Panchali”. …..sheyi Apu aar Durgar jhorer modhye aam kurono. There’s the monotonous call of the GhuGhu Pakhi and the normal cacophony of the greedy crow who has an eye for the fruit I carry to the terrace. Gurudas Da smokes in the corner. Vivek with a smile speaks on the phone. We are all hopeful for him until we hear him talking about the budget. A busy squirrel scampers by. Sometimes I also love speaking to my dear one on the terrace in the cool shade of the Narkol Gachh. I miss my friends who used to accompany me here before. We used to indulge in some really enriching girl-talk, flavoured by oranges (as one, while going through this manuscript, dutifully reminded me). Soon the reverie is broken and I must return to my folders filled with fiscal follies of my friends in other departments.

Soon, outside the sun after a glorious day’s work sets. I’m afraid he too doesn’t have any fixed work hours. More painful a realization is that he comes real early like our colleagues at the Service Branch.

Though we can hardly understand the difference, one more day has already ended. I often hear excerpts emanating from equally pained souls that say “ What a life we have! Wake up-office-lunch-(office)-home-dinner-sleep”….to which an optimistic voice gently reminds him that it also has an happier annual aspect of “target meeting in March and Variable Pay in April”. To me it looks like traveling to Japan from Alaska via Europe. That would surely encompass the annual aspect of the comment.

My Boss, a kindly soul, relieves me early, around 7 and I again embark on a journey to the bus stop. One amazing thing I have noticed about myself is the lack of realization of the presence of the same amount of dust in the atmosphere or even more of it after sundown. I walk up to Exide blissfully ignorant of the fact and very much conscious and observant of the latest style icons hanging about near Emami Landmark.

I usually begin my tiresome wait in front of Avani Heights, if accidentally I haven’t already made a jhulonto entry into a passing bus. The wait seems too tedious and I keep glancing at the Marks & Spencer’s outlet. I only allow myself there with 350/- in my pocket to buy my cream. As I stand there waiting, the faint humming of the fountain soothing my ears, I again slip into a sentimental mood of missing my friend who used to go home with me. Now she is married though, and settled in Mumbai.

Life moves on… “ Desopriyo, Goriaha, Ballygon, Bosepukur, Ruby”. My call. I rush to the bus.

The return journey is not so eventful. It’s just a complicated attempt of finding peace at the end of the day. I sit trying to think about the happy moments in my life and occasionally trying to guess the food for dinner. The lady beside me in all probabilities thinks of wrapping up, and recollecting the pending chores that have to be completed. The sweat stained man with a perpetual frown and a mobile in his hand talks of figures and calculations..targets to be met. He remains highly irritated. The rustics who suddenly block my view seem to be agitated at mere body contact. “Didi ektu shorey daran na”. The scream and the stench seem to usher in the end of yet another working day. It somehow gives confidence and is extremely familiar to our existence. It seems to indicate no thoroughfare in the normal course of Life.

The only soul unruffled by all this is the thin tee shirt clad girl talking on her cell, putting her little head out of the window lest the rest of the world (now the people in close proximity) may hear the tender words spoken. Little does she realize that we don’t have time for all that. Maybe it is because she herself is unruffled by the atrocities of struggle for survival. We all want to go Home now. Overcoming the hurdles of the crossings at Hajra, and Gariahat I somehow, predictably though, make it home.

Activities that dot the evening till the time I’m sprawled in bed wearing my Bermudas and tee shirt seem too unworthy of mention. A few more good moments awake and then I must sleep for I have to get up next morning.

A peaceful realization dawns -My life (as are many such lives of corporate executives) truly is nothing but a significant bus journey with three mentionable stops- Kasba Purono Thana-Officer chhaad and back.

And we blissfully carry on………………