A micro-mini Travelogue
A public transport bus in Chennai any day carries a cross section of the local population. 7:30 on a Sunday evening is admittedly not the best time for people-watching. But the good thing is that you don't have to hang onto a window railing but actually get a place to stand inside the bus.
The action starts right the next moment after you get in. Someone whispers an 'excuse me' into my ears. And before I could turn and ask her how I could be of help, she shoves me into a corner and walks on. 'Excuse me', back home, is not so much a request but more a statutory warning so that you don't turn around and complain that you were never warned. I am a little rustic, out of touch. A bus journey is all it takes to get back in touch :)
I find a place next to the black vertical rod right in the middle of the bus, and stand adjacent to an aged brahmin couple, who like any other aged couple don't have much to say to each other. The richly clad Mrs. Iyer is dressed in a rich peacock green silk sari, has a turmeric-conditioned fair face but dark, wrinkle-free hands. Mr. Iyer is dressed in a light sandal shirt, has a slightly tanned face but fair, wrinkled hands sparsed with long gray hair strands. A symbiotic couple with complementing pairs of hands. I see his hands and tell myself, that he must have been a teacher, or an officer in the bank, a clerk may be. Not one of those who cut their hands in the factory floor. I have seen those hands a lot, like my father's and his friends' - dark nails shrunken inside folds of skin, palms as hard as wood (as my cheeks would know!) and a few scars sitting next to the wrinkles showcasing time that's passed by. Mr. Iyer had one of those palms, that will carry a flushed imprint if you hold the arm rest long enough. Tender as a flower. A lifetime with the pen and the ink.
Behind me, someone's agitated that the conductor is lying. Seems the conductor had a 50 paise coin in his bag but lied to this young man that he didn't have any and thus, 'fooled' him into giving him one. So, the young man wants his 50 paise coin back. The conductor is not sure whether the guy's serious and dismisses him for sometime. The young man however is persistent and is looking around for some support. In matters of social importance (like this 50 paise coin case), men of madras always have an opinion and they believe in it passionately. Surprisingly no one is interested today. One of them symbolically puts on his ear phones and stares out into the dark. After a minute or two, the guy takes out a note book and writes down the number of the vehicle (I really want to know what he's going to complain about). He warns the conductor ominously to wait and watch what will happen tomorrow. Mrs. Iyer looks at me and nods her head dismissively at the young man [Conductor 1. Young man 0]. And when another lady behind me realizes that the young man does not intend to stop his spiel, voices her support for the conductor and is greeted with a lot of ambiguous nods [Conductor 2. Young man 0]. The young man, disheartened by the state of affairs in the city, moves on to the other end of the bus.
I follow him as he walks away and find Ms. Excuse me staring back at me with not the most pleasant of expressions. She probably thinks I am eyeing her. Such vanity, I suffer from! I am probably the last thing on her mind. Korattur arrives and both of them get off the bus. I again want to see where the young man is going [as someone I love would tell me, probably my subconscious motives are something else]. Again, she spots me staring at her and dismisses me with a nod. She'll probably call me names. Or go home and complain about the men of today to her dad or write a blog on guys like me! You can probably click on the next button and check what she's got to say :)
Someone gets up and I get to sit. The familiar green, rugged texture. So many stories, so many people. My trips to school. Uncles and aunts, family friends. Weekend trips with dad. My board exams. An entire life hiding within the folds of a weathered cover. I stare out at the dark and make out all the buildings I can't see, that have been stuck with the stamp of permanence. Probably they'll disappear one day and so will these memories. But for now, they don't. To know they exist is a comfort. I smile to myself, close my eyes and sway with the summer night's wind.
I find a place next to the black vertical rod right in the middle of the bus, and stand adjacent to an aged brahmin couple, who like any other aged couple don't have much to say to each other. The richly clad Mrs. Iyer is dressed in a rich peacock green silk sari, has a turmeric-conditioned fair face but dark, wrinkle-free hands. Mr. Iyer is dressed in a light sandal shirt, has a slightly tanned face but fair, wrinkled hands sparsed with long gray hair strands. A symbiotic couple with complementing pairs of hands. I see his hands and tell myself, that he must have been a teacher, or an officer in the bank, a clerk may be. Not one of those who cut their hands in the factory floor. I have seen those hands a lot, like my father's and his friends' - dark nails shrunken inside folds of skin, palms as hard as wood (as my cheeks would know!) and a few scars sitting next to the wrinkles showcasing time that's passed by. Mr. Iyer had one of those palms, that will carry a flushed imprint if you hold the arm rest long enough. Tender as a flower. A lifetime with the pen and the ink.
Behind me, someone's agitated that the conductor is lying. Seems the conductor had a 50 paise coin in his bag but lied to this young man that he didn't have any and thus, 'fooled' him into giving him one. So, the young man wants his 50 paise coin back. The conductor is not sure whether the guy's serious and dismisses him for sometime. The young man however is persistent and is looking around for some support. In matters of social importance (like this 50 paise coin case), men of madras always have an opinion and they believe in it passionately. Surprisingly no one is interested today. One of them symbolically puts on his ear phones and stares out into the dark. After a minute or two, the guy takes out a note book and writes down the number of the vehicle (I really want to know what he's going to complain about). He warns the conductor ominously to wait and watch what will happen tomorrow. Mrs. Iyer looks at me and nods her head dismissively at the young man [Conductor 1. Young man 0]. And when another lady behind me realizes that the young man does not intend to stop his spiel, voices her support for the conductor and is greeted with a lot of ambiguous nods [Conductor 2. Young man 0]. The young man, disheartened by the state of affairs in the city, moves on to the other end of the bus.
I follow him as he walks away and find Ms. Excuse me staring back at me with not the most pleasant of expressions. She probably thinks I am eyeing her. Such vanity, I suffer from! I am probably the last thing on her mind. Korattur arrives and both of them get off the bus. I again want to see where the young man is going [as someone I love would tell me, probably my subconscious motives are something else]. Again, she spots me staring at her and dismisses me with a nod. She'll probably call me names. Or go home and complain about the men of today to her dad or write a blog on guys like me! You can probably click on the next button and check what she's got to say :)
Someone gets up and I get to sit. The familiar green, rugged texture. So many stories, so many people. My trips to school. Uncles and aunts, family friends. Weekend trips with dad. My board exams. An entire life hiding within the folds of a weathered cover. I stare out at the dark and make out all the buildings I can't see, that have been stuck with the stamp of permanence. Probably they'll disappear one day and so will these memories. But for now, they don't. To know they exist is a comfort. I smile to myself, close my eyes and sway with the summer night's wind.
posted by Rathish at 12:35 AM
6 Comments:
3 points!
1. Not bad. You have started reading the sub conscious mind of the one who reads yours.
2. Awesome post, though not of your surreality kinds. Too bad no one is not commenting. Hello!! Isnt no one around?
3. Am getting back to feel like writing myself after reading so much of yours!
A very different one from the other blogs you write. Everytime I read your blogs, makes me feel reading Keats of the Romantic age. This was nicely put. Wish I could go home and travel in those Chennai buses. Gosh, how I miss those days
@Anonymous - thanks :) as for writing, don't just say it. Do it :)
@avadakedavra - thank you! That was a very sweet compliment. Personally, I think madras has a lot more character than Bangalore. Two days there and you will end up with a lot more stories :)
had been away and not able to read ur blogs for quiet sometime
reading ur post brings in the same comfort as those memories of our madras buses bring
Thank you :)
Epovaachum pona blog elutha thonum,thinam thinam pona thaane kastam theriyum.
beautiful post btw.
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