Bus Route Home

Stepping onto the hot and stuffy school bus which has been baking in the sun since noon, I choose my seat on the left, shaded side. as more students flood the bus with the stench of human sweat, only the open windows offer a reprieve from this madness.

We, older students stay silent on the ride back, far too spent to make conversation, the music coming out of our earphones lulling us to a state of temporary unawareness, reality mixed with daydreams. the younger children chatter, droning on about the days inconsequential matters.

The bus vibrates, now in motion, the school shrinks in size as we drive away from it, finally heading home, to my place of solace. The bad roads in Bangalore are a familiar sight, bumpy and rugged from years of being bad maintained and abused by the weather as well as the traffic.

With each speed bump, we all fly up involuntarily, somewhat thrown into the air, we are play-toys to the bus. Each turn sways us to its liking, every break jolts us forward.

I stare out the window now, the putrid odour of decaying sewage and drainage overtakes my senses, we are nearing the polluted flyover, once it used to be pretty, filled with greenery, but now it houses dogs and cows, who laze around lethargically, as though stuck in time.

Next, we pass an old shopping mall, it used to be all the rage at some point, but now its glory has faded away, persisting only in the minds of old Bangaloreans, like me. Still, I see a few students loitering around the scarce fast food joints for a quick bite.

The flyover gives me an aerial view of my traffic infested city, I see a tall statue in the distance, dull and grey but standing proud nonetheless. The sounds of angry drivers, impatient bikers and the incessant, unnecessary honking, surround me, it is too loud to even hear my thoughts.

I look over to the other side, there is a lake, seemingly serene but just as polluted as the rest of this city up close. I gaze at the tall apartment complex almost hugging the sky, reaching towards it longingly. It looks incredibly out of place, there used to be trees and local shops in the area, now replaced by modern architecture.

Descending from the flyover, we slither noisily into the lanes and thinning roads overflowing with life. On all sides, business being conducted, as usual, car repair shops loudly changing tires, mechanics yelling out to each other to communicate through the noise; a chaat stand, smelling delicious, it's aromatic vapours waft into the bus, making me long to have a taste; a flower vendor

artfully curating a bouquet for his customers, stopping momentarily to verify his choice and smiling when he is satisfied with the outcome.

Every stop we make seems like a pause in a song, an unrequited interjection in time, though short- lived, each stop gives me a peek into a whole new world.