Connection

The sun had just set as Aseem put his mask on and walked toward the bus stop. A long day at work had drained him of his energy, and an unusually hot and humid January evening was making it worse. Nothing unusual about it, he thought to himself, feeling beads of sweat trickle down his back. It has been like this for the past few years, a new normal is what they are calling it. What is normal about this? Why should this be normal? With a growing frustration now added to his exhaustion, he plugged his earphones into his phone and pressed play on the latest episode of his favourite football podcast. A mistake. His team had lost badly the day before, and being reminded of it was not going to help. Back into his bag the earphones went.

Aseem reached the stop and checked the bus app on his phone. Bus number 295 was still a few minutes away. He let out a sigh and struck his customary pose: leaning against the stop sign with his bag strapped back to front on his chest. Waiting for the bus, he had a look around at the people waiting alongside him. He spotted a couple of familiar faces from his daily commute. The college girl with her headphones hanging around her neck. The slightly balding man with his distinct brown laptop bag. Even though he knew nothing about them, it brought a faint smile to his face.

He noticed the local street dog manoeuvring its way through the crowd of people and dodging vehicles on the road. Careful! Aseem had concern in his eyes. The sight of the animal triggered a bunch of thoughts. What is their experience of life in a city? Do they enjoy the freedom? Or are they always on alert, in danger of coming under a vehicle at any moment? Do they know the air they breathe day in and day out, the puddles they drink from, and the scraps they eat are not what Nature had in mind for them? And are we really okay with their lives coming to a violent end just because we want to move around quickly? What kind of a life are we humans living?

He was jolted out of his thoughts by his fellow passengers suddenly standing up and making their way to the edge of the footpath. 295 was approaching. The green and white electric bus with its wide windows quietly came to a halt in front of them. Aseem boarded the bus and was greeted by the cool air inside – a welcome respite from the heat and humidity. He headed straight to the back. The middle seat at the very end was his favourite. It gave him a view of the entire bus in front of him, and was perfect for people watching.

The bus would wait for a couple of minutes, this being the first stop on its way back to where it had just come from. People were still settling in their seats and adjusting the air vents above them when Aseem saw the conductor climb into the bus. Seeing the familiar bespectacled and bearded face brought another smile on Aseem’s. It is my lucky day! He had been on buses with this conductor before, and remembered him as a kind and funny man. An all-round pleasant human. No earphones today. I need to listen in on his jokes.

The conductor made his way to the back of the bus, issuing tickets along the way.

“Ticket?” he looked at the elderly lady seated a few rows in front of Aseem.

“Water Tank.”

“Full or empty?”

Everyone within earshot had a big grin on their face, and so did Aseem under his mask. The first of many. This is going to be a nice journey. The doors closed and the bus started moving.

A short while into the journey, the bus turned onto the main road. One of the busiest in the city, it was notorious for its traffic and had construction work on a new metro line for the city in full swing along its length. The bus made a stop and in stepped four labourers, helmets in hand. Alliance Projects, read the blue text on the back of their high-viz jackets. A day’s work on the metro line had left a coat of dirt and dust on their clothes and faces. With all seats occupied, the four made their way to the middle of the bus to join the few passengers already standing there, clutching the handles dangling overhead.

One of them was speaking on his phone, with the rest engaged in an animated discussion. Aseem didn’t understand the language but could make out that it revolved around cricket, with a few familiar names being mentioned regularly. Two of them – evidently the fashionable ones with their hair styled with streaks of colour and wearing tight skinny jeans – seemed to be quite critical of one name in particular, and were ganging up against the third, who was trying to put up a valiant defence of the player under scrutiny. I’m with you on this, they don’t know what they’re talking about! Aseem thought, wanting to join the discussion and make his point.

The fourth person was still on his call. Aseem could hear the words room and bhaada featuring regularly. The labourer’s face and his mannerisms while talking on the phone signalled that something wasn’t right. Aseem’s inner voice took over again. These people build our cities, quite literally. They’ve probably built the house I live in. They’re building this shiny new expensive metro line. They’ve likely laid the roads we’re on and the pipes and the wires that run under them. But what does the city have for them? Does the city treat them right? Do they even get to live in the city they are building? Do they enjoy the fruits of their sweat and blood afterwards, the way we do? They’ll be off to a different city soon. Forever on the move. He closed his eyes, and before he knew it, he had drifted off.

Aseem was woken up from the shortest of naps by an all too familiar song. Someone was watching Instagram reels on their phone. No earphones, of course. A dance. Another dance. A rather annoying laugh track. A rather hateful political speech. A dance. Some productivity tips. Another political speech. Get rich quick! The laugh track again. The scrolling continued, while he surreptitiously glanced at the phone in the hands of the young man seated next to him. He was busy in a WhatsApp conversation with someone named Momo <3. Aseem smiled.

“Did you eat?”

Classic.

“No will eat with you :*”

“I’ve eaten thanks”

Oof.

“Cool I’m bringing vada pav you can watch me eat”

“Tell them to not put any chutney inside the pav, and DEFINITELY not the imli one”

Correct. I approve of Momo.

“Okay reaching in 15”

As the man began tapping through his WhatsApp stories, Aseem craned his neck to look outside the window to his left. The sun had set by now, and he could see a sea of red and yellow lights on the road. He was still ten minutes away from home. Meanwhile, the conductor was in conversation with one of the regular commuters a couple of rows in front. Aseem directed his focus to what was being said.

“This is my thirty-first year in this job. I’ll be retiring next year.”

“Thirty one years on the bus? That is a tough job!”

“Haven’t been promoted even once in these years. In my entire career I have seen only one of my colleagues get a promotion. And that was after twenty seven years of service.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They have stopped hiring new conductors for a few years now. Probably that. They want to privatize everything. All of them will be contractual workers now.”

“Oh.”

“Be ready for fare hikes too this year. They’re on the way. Alright, I need to get to the door now for these girls.”

The bus made a stop and a bunch of schoolgirls climbed in.

“Girls! Let me see your passes.”

The conductor made his way around, scanning the bus pass that each girl was carrying for their commute. The girls around him giggled at his comments everywhere he went. Some of them had clever retorts of their own, making him chuckle in turn.

After hours of behaving in the four walls of the local public school, the girls couldn’t contain their conversations and excitement on the ride back home. One of them was putting on a show for her friends, mimicking what appeared to be a particularly strict teacher of theirs. Elsewhere, a girl was being teased with the name of a boy, with her playing along and blushing. Another girl was challenging her friends to read the advertisements plastered around the bus in English, correcting them when they stumbled on a few words. A couple of unfinished tiffin boxes were being passed around in a hurry before they reached home. Aseem could also spot a girl’s shoelace being stealthily and naughtily untied. The bus was suddenly filled with laughter and life.

“Regal Bakery!”

The conductor’s shout diverted Aseem’s attention and prompted him to move to the front of the bus. His stop was nearly there. Moments later, he was standing on the dusty road watching 295 speeding away. He started the walk back towards home.

Aseem had stepped into the bus tired and exhausted. Half an hour later, he stepped out feeling mentally rejuvenated. He cherished this about his commute. For him, the bus was a way to feel connected to the city and to its people. It made him feel a part of a much greater whole, beyond merely himself or his family. Something about sharing a space with people from all walks of life, young and old, of castes and classes he otherwise would rarely share a space with, warmed his heart and pumped some life back into it at the end of a long day. We’re all in this together. Or at least we should be in this together?

In a life spent in gated communities, cleanly separated from the lives of others by design, taking the bus every day was his way of not allowing the connection to be severed completely. The simple act of waiting with others, sharing a space with them, and getting a small peek into their lives through overheard conversations and lit phone screens made him feel more human. For Aseem, the bus also provided time and space to think. It was a place to reflect. A place to ponder. It allowed him to sit with these reflections, to think them through, to form his own thoughts about life in the city.

As he turned into the narrow lane leading up to his home, he spotted Khazoor, the street dog. Khazoor spotted him too, his dirty white face with a scar on his snout breaking out in what Aseem knew was a smile.

“Khajool! How are you?”

With a wagging tail, the gentle giant lay on his side, raised his leg, and promptly offered his belly to Aseem. After a few belly rubs and pats on his scarred face, Aseem resumed his walk home. Stay safe out here Khazoor!

With lighter steps and a purpose in his walk, Aseem removed his mask and stepped through the gates.

About the author

Amol lives in Pune and likes to think about health, animals, and life on the planet (among other things). He hopes to convert some of this thinking into meaningful action one day.

About the editor

Varun Iyengar