MySpace@mumbai.in - 1/3 The Bus Ride

Not a long time ago I boarded an MTA bus near 125^th and Amsterdam and felt that I was in a crowded bus: there were no empty seats and I was standing very close to someone else. Of course there were some seats that were ‘unoccupied’ since there were two oversized people seated on the seat for three. I have never seen anyone ask someone to move and make place for them in the time I spent in New York City.

I board a BEST bus near Bandra-Kurla Complex in Mumbai - the financial center of India and feel relieved that I was in a not-so-crowded bus. Of course I am standing, and none of the seats are empty. There are people in front of me and behind me, their shoulders touching mine. Every few minutes there is a stop and more people board the bus squeezing in. Now my back is touching someone’s back. Someone else has to get off and is trying to get to the exit. She has to squeeze past us. We offer a symbolic gesture of the recognition to her effort by moving our shoulder, pretending that we can actually make space by doing so. She does squeeze past though; everyone does: one has to do what one has to do.

The smell of fresh sweat, mixed with the smell of the cool and smooth steel rod overhead that I am holding to, and the smell of monsoon rain on the road and dirt is very deceivingly familiar. I used to live in Mumbai in 1996-1998. But that was 13 years and 47 kilograms ago. Standing in the bus, my nostalgic emotions demand I feel comfortable here, but my body’s response is of discomfort and inconvenience.

The bus conductor is adept in making his way around this crowd shouting, not really shouting just speaking very loudly and determinedly, things like “keep moving forward”, "go ahead if you want to get off” etc. Another of his favorite lines is “give change.” A sign on the inside of bus demands the same in somewhat outlandish good-language: “tender exact fare.” I will go with the former translation which captures the matter-of-fact hardness of his attitude. I may have some change in my bag. To the dismay and grunts of my ‘contacts’, I try to open my bag, find my wallet and take out the change. That was a good lab scale experiment in warping of space in the universe, the pressure levels were approximately the same.

I get off the bus. The trip was almost eventless. I did slip on the wet steel steps, the grooves smoothed with wear, getting thrown all three steps in one smooth movement; but I did not fall down. I soiled and tore a small hole in my new shirt. I stepped off the bus and into, well, a scale model of a seasonal river.