The Bus Stop

Lalitha knew she was already late because the news was over and film songs had started over the radio. She deftly pleated her pale pink cotton sari (which she knew was a bad choice, considering that she was so late), stabbed a giant safety pin into the pleats and her matching petticoat, and snapped it shut. Tucking the loose ends of her sari so that it sat taut, smoothing the stubborn pleats one last time, she plucked a bindi off the bindi pock-marked mirror, and slapped it onto her forehead. A last dab of her favourite sandalwood powder wrapped up her two-minute session in front of the mirror, and she grabbed her bag while slipping on her worn black slippers.

“Amma, I’m going!”
Her mother came out of the kitchen, and thrust the steel lunchbox wrapped in plastic into her hands.

Lalitha literally ran out the gate, and began walking at a furious pace towards the bus stop. Even without looking at the face of her ten-year old scratch-proofless, water-proofless watch, she knew she would need to break into a sprint once she turned the corner of the street. The bus-driver of her bus – No. 61, was one of the old-timers, punctual and personal. The heat of the sambhar-rice contents of the steel lunchbox burned through the plastic and she had to quickly shift it to the other hand. She turned the corner, and began a rather ungainly increase in pace, half-running, half-walking, her cotton sari literally offering a stiff resistance. She began to relax only on the home-stretch, since she could not see the bus in the line of her sight, and that meant she had at least two minutes to spare.

“Hi! Late again?!” Nalini smiled at her.

Lalitha nodded, as she caught her breath.

“I hate getting up in the mornings – who wants to get up so early?! It’s such a pain!”

Lalitha smiled absently, for in her anxiety, she had almost forgotten one thing, and that was definitely not a good sign.

Checking out from the corner of her eye, she heaved a sigh of relief – it would be a good day today after all. ‘He’ was there as usual, standing under the tree and reading the paper, and what’s more, wearing her favourite blue and white shirt Oh yes! It would definitely be a good day today!

The bus drew up, ensuring that the bystanders got their daily dose of pollutants, and Lalitha got in after Nalini, quickly glancing to check where ‘he’ was. Their seats were already fixed, a privilege they had earned by being the first stop for the bus.

Until ‘he’ had arrived on the scene, Lalitha used to just take the first seat available by the door, since it made getting out from the packed bus so much easier. Now, the seat was a carefully chosen one, where she had to turn just slightly in order to see ‘him’ . Even though this ‘darshan’ lasted only three stops before people started crowding in, and she had to literally battle her way to get off, Lalitha was as tenacious as a puppy with a slipper when it came to the seat. Oblivious to her deliberate manouevers, Nalini had initially tried to change their place, but Lalitha would have none of it.

Comfortably ensconced, the nippy morning air setting up a ripple of goose-pimples through her body, Lalitha’s thoughts wandered to the first day when she had met ‘him’.

It had been a mournful Monday morning, a grey drizzle which mocked umbrella-persons and insidiously drenched the non-umbrella persons. She had been early at the bus stop, damply dry under her stout and patched umbrella, when she was startled by a voice at her elbow.

“Excuse me, this is where No. 61 comes?” His blue and white shirt clung to his skin, and his hair was plastered to his head, but the sparkle in his eyes and the sound of his voice made her heart leap into her mouth.

She nodded dumbly.

“It comes at 7, no?”

She nodded again.

“Thanks”. He moved away, and took up a spot under the tree.

Lalitha replayed that scene in her mind, probably for the millionth time. She still cursed herself for being so dumb. She could have been so much more vocal, perhaps even charming. She could have struck up a conversation.

“So, you are new here?” … or … “You are going to work?” … or … there were so many things she could have said.

Every “if-only I had…” led her into magic dream worlds, each possibility weaving another rich world for her, where she was loved and loving, a rainbow-tinted world, a world of ‘his’ arms around her, a world out of this world. A world of the perfect little house with a perfect green garden, and the tinkling laughter of their very own darling children; a world of silk and flowers and colorful glass bangles, a world of music and joy; a world the very antithesis of her dreary existence in a discolored dreary leaky house with a widowed mother, unreliable brother, and unruly younger sister; a world miles away from her drudgery at one of the many private schools which mushroomed around the city in mossy and damp one-room tenements. It didn’t matter then that she didn’t know his name, age, or caste, or where he worked, or how much he earned, or whether his family was big or small, or he had a greedy mother waiting in the wings – all that mattered was that ‘he’ was there for her every morning, without fail, reading his paper under tree at the same spot. Day after day, ‘he’ wormed his way into her life, nestling in comfortably, using just three innocuous sentences and a daily presence as tools to tunnel in.
*----*

As a rule, Lalitha could hardly wait for the summer holidays to get over. Her house stifled her, and she had nowhere else to go. This time it was particularly hard – every morning she lay in bed, picturing ‘him’ standing under the tree, reading the paper. She would walk slowly towards ‘him’, and ‘he’ would lower the paper, smile at her, and say “Where were you all these days? I missed you!”. One day she thought she saw ‘him’ at the market, and that added yet another variation to her daydreams. Once she would bump into ‘him’ when she was buying onions, at other times, her bag would split open and the vegetables would go tumbling about, and ‘he’ would appear magically to help her to pick them up, one by one, deliciously slow….

On the school re-opening day, Lalitha woke up early, sick with anticipation. For days she had pondered on what to wear, and had decided that her flaming orange sari with the green border was the best choice. Everyone had said she looked good in it. She had carefully purchased the matching orange flowers to wear in her head the previous day, and the green bindi was the other extravagant touch to her attire. She slid her feet into the new shiny sandals she had purchased, and walked out of the house calm and early. She knew she looked particularly fetching, and that boosted her confidence, and put a smile on her lips. She had thought about this day for a long time, and today she was determined to strike up a conversation with ‘him’. She rehearsed her opening line once more – “Can you please tell me what time it is on your watch?” She had decided that the line was innocent enough to be genuine, and yet she could expand on it a little more if she wanted.

Lalitha turned the corner, and what met her eyes struck her like a whiplash. ‘He’ was talking to Nalini! What was worse – they were actually laughing together! They must have come early. Maybe they had been doing this all during her summer holidays. Anguish swept through her like a giant twister, her heart caught up in the center of the storm, her body cringing in the onslaught. The rainbow-tinted dream bubbles hurtled through the black thunder, smashing into smithereens. Her leaden legs took her through an eternity across the road, where Nalini greeted her with a smile, and ‘he’ moved away back to his usual spot. Storm clouds threatened to pour and Lalitha pressed her eyes shut, determinedly willing them to dissolve. Nalini’s background chattering seemed to grow distant, as the alarming thud of her heart grew deafening.

After what seemed like a really long time, the bus drew up, and Lalitha got in first this time. She chose the seat next to the door.