Amal's First Journey

Amal walked with a spring in her step. The Sunday sun shone through the clouds gently, relieving the winter cold for a brief second. She paused and checked her phone. It was five past ten. She quickened her pace, navigating through the crowd that had gathered near the edge of the street for the Sunday farmer's market. Her mask scratched her nose. It was better than breathing in the smog, her mother’s raspy voice echoed in her head. But the smog in the Designated Safe Zones was quite low, especially as compared to the bad times.

Her mother spent the majority of her childhood near the industrial town of Karmal, far from the city centre. Aside from living near hubs of air pollution, she also had to travel through a lot of traffic to go anywhere in the city. She developed asthma when she was still in primary school. 

Things were better now.

Amal finally reached the BRTS station. Her Nani used to travel from the same bus stop as a child, she had told Amal. But the city has changed so much since then Amu, she’d say.

Her grandparents, like her parents, had been climate activists. They met while protesting the opening of a new manufacturing plant at Karmal. Lack of political will pushed them to engage in direct action, for which her Nana was arrested, right before her mother was born. Twelve years later he died in jail from cancer, probably due to growing up in Karmal. Amal often wondered what he was like and felt a strange, distant loss when she thought of him.

She climbed the stairs to the station and the sensors noticed her presence, opening the doors to her. She felt excitement bubbling within her. Her parents had been nervous about letting a 10-year-old travel all alone. But Amal was adamant. They eventually gave in, making her promise that she would keep them informed of her every move through her live location. Amal promised sincerely and celebrated. She couldn’t wait to show off to her friends that she would be the first amongst them to travel all alone.

Welcome!, read an LED board above the doors and she walked in. The familiar sound of the PA system announcing the incoming buses greeted her. She viewed the board in the centre of the station to check the timings of her bus. There was a large, interactive map on one wall, right next to the water cooler. Amal suddenly remembered that she forgot to fill her water bottle, and ran to it.

As the water trickled into her bottle, she saw the bus she was supposed to board leave. The next bus was due in seven minutes. She sighed and sat on one of the benches next to the station walls. She had heard from the adults:

You kids are so lucky! When we were young, we didn't have buses. When we did, they would take forty minutes, sometimes an hour to arrive!

She smiled at a few familiar faces at the station. The lady who took bus 276 to work every day. Today, she was waiting for 345, probably visiting Nilavan. A group of teenagers who lived nearby chatted intently on a bench across from her. A mean-looking uncle climbed bus number 115 without taking his eyes off his newspaper. A grandmother on the bench across from her fixed her dupatta that her grandson kept pulling at because he wanted to play. The assistant at the bus stop, Rakesh Dada, was helping a couple, probably not from the city, figure out the large map. She was always in awe of him because he knew the city like the back of his hand.

He noticed her staring. He smiled and walked towards her.

"Where to?" He asked.

"The Old University. To meet my friends!”

He noticed that her parents were not with her and gave her a knowing smile.

"Ah! How exciting.”

Amal beamed.

“My first bus journey alone was very difficult, Amal.”

“How so?” She replied and instantly regretted it.

“You see, I had forgotten to bring change. Well, back in those days, we needed change to ride in buses, otherwise, the bus conductor would kick you out of the bus. Things are different now. Buses are free. You kids should be grateful for all that you have. My job didn’t even exist earlier, can you believe it? We had to figure out everything by ourselves. No one spoon-fed us. Anyway… where was I?”

“The conductor kicked you out?”

“Ah! No no, she didn’t kick me out. I was scared that she would kick me out. I kept thinking of how my mother would react. She was a mean woman. Thankfully the conductor did no such thing. She saw that I was a small boy, and gave me a strict warning—" he was cut short when the couple he was speaking to called out to him again. He looked around and acknowledged their request with a smile.

"Ah! Duty calls. I will bore you later. All the best!" He winked and left.

“Thanks Dada” Amal replied, a little relieved. As much as she liked him, he had a tendency to ramble.

The PA system announced her bus. She picked up her bag and walked to the gate. The bus arrived as announced and the gates opened. A ramp lowered onto the platform and she waited for the disabled passengers, senior citizens and pregnant women to board the bus. She then waited for the cyclists to board. When she entered the bus, all the seats were taken, so she walked to one side and sat on the floor.

Her Nani had told her that when she was younger, the buses were falling apart. At times, they would even fill up to thrice their capacity because there weren’t too many functional buses to begin with. Amal shuddered at that thought and watched the light dance across the LED board as it notified the passengers of the next bus stop.

While her grandparents had grown up using buses, by her parents’ time, most of the bus network had been dismantled. Even then, they refused to buy cars of their own, instead relying on cabs and auto rickshaws.

But private cars had been outlawed right before Amal’s birth. Hence, Amal had spent her entire life using buses. She understood the system and even felt connected to it. It made her feel like she was a part of something big, bigger than herself.

Bored of sitting still, she stood up and looked outside the window. They sped past cyclists, trees, pedestrians and the occasional e-rickshaw. The various Sunday markets propped along the edge of the street had created a bustle of traffic.

Traffic. It's such a strange word.

When her parents spoke of traffic they often spoke of cars. Amal had seen cars in the local museum but she had found them rather ugly and scary. Her parents had tried to get her to sit in a car at the museum but she had vehemently refused. To her, they looked like cages. She couldn't imagine being locked up in such a cramped space.

The bus halted. Two more bus stops.

Amal sat on the floor again. She held her head in both hands and tried not to think about cages or traffic jams.

The bus finally reached the Old University. Amal stood near the door. It opened and she walked out when it was her turn. The Old University station was much larger than the station near her home. A hub that lay in the centre of three major transit routes.

She exited the station and saw the framed photograph on the wall next to the exit doors. It was from when her parents were kids. An ocean of cars occupying the streets. Every public place and monument in the city had such photographs, to remind its citizens of how far they had come together. To remind them how they had rebuilt their city from scratch. Of all that they had lost in the process. Of how far they still had to go. And it worked. It always got the adults sad and pensive, almost like they were haunted by the ghosts of the city’s past.

To Amal, it seemed like a foreign reality, but she knew that the bad times were far from over. The planet was still reeling from all the damage it had sustained. There were cities in India itself, her teacher had told her, where nothing had changed. Cities with smog so thick, one wouldn’t be able to see their toes! Heatwaves still occurred, and so did flash floods. Many parts of the world had been declared uninhabitable. 

She had overheard her parents fighting once, her mother had said, We brought a child into a dying world!

She remembered her visit to Karmal, which was rendered barren and grey due to years of industrial waste poisoning. They had come to visit Nana's grave. She had clung to her father’s leg as they walked towards the graveyard using a narrow path from the main bus stop. She was complaining, asking them to turn back. Her parents ignored her, which had irritated her further. It was due to rain soon. They had very little time. They hurried.

Walking fast, Amal had tripped over something, grazed her knee and started bawling. Her parents rushed to her side and sat her up. They tried consoling her, but she wouldn’t stop crying. The journey to Karmal, grey and forgotten, had gotten to her. Suddenly her dad said,

“Look Amu” 

At first, she ignored him. He gently removed her hands from her face and pointed to something on the path. 

“It’s a seedling.” 

Through sobs, Amal looked where he was pointing. Sure enough, amidst rocks and gravel, was a tiny sprout, bright green and new. Amal got on her feet and walked towards it slowly.

She was now silently observing the shoot, transfixed. She had seen many seedlings at home, but seeing one here somehow felt different.

She looked at her surroundings, in the present. People strolled through the streets. Some sat in the patches of grass dotted along the edges, or under lush green canopies. Cyclists paused to look at the wares of the street shops. Amal smiled and started walking towards the old Banyan tree near the University gate.

About the author

Madhushree is the founder of Understory. Having grown up in urbanscapes, she loves exploring questions of mobility, access and marginalisation in Indian cities. You can find her work here: madhushreek.com