18.06.2014 (20.30 hrs)
West End to Baker Bus stop
There are some relations in the world that are built only by coincidental meetings. That don't have superfulous conversations or profound ones. But yet so, when the two people meet, there is an inner satisfaction, A satisfaction of trust and confidence in each other. A satisfaction which defines the relation so well and yet makes it complex with words.
I would travel in bus number 164 weekly. An old lady climbed up along with me. She dad her hair perfectly tied in a bun. As though it was glued to her head. She draped her saree in a manner that didn't reduce the prominance of her ponch. She wore a pair of glasses up her tiny nose. And if in a hurry, she'd walk like a penguin. Probably because her old knees couldn't balance the mass suspended from her bones.
She seemed as frequent as me, so we recognised each other well. Though I never struck a conversation with her and nor did she, her eyes spoke about the trust she had in me. After all, I had been travelling this route since almost three quaters of a year now. She always gave me a feeling of backing. A feeling of satisfaction.
She'd be always rushing to the bus stop, probably from her work place, to be just in time for bus number 164. Ironically, it seemed that she was more satisfied seeing me than knowing whether or not she had missed the bus. Or supposedly she thought of the obvious ("If the young girl is here, I obviously haven't missed the bus").
So well, that evening, the bus arrived late. Prominantly late. Not that it was ever on time, but it was always unnoticebly late. The bus arrives majorly empty so I always tend to catch hold of the seat next to the window. Do you like sitting on the window seat while on bus journeys in the evening? That is my favourite spot! While you get to have a look at the world around you, the evening breeze of Pune will blow off all the tiredness. It is all so magical! Or so I feel.
As I entered the bus, another familiar face caught my eye. The conductor! And again, satisfaction spread a wide smile on my yet-so-tired face. Suddenly, he smiled back and pointed at a vacant seat by the window. Grabbing the opportunity, I glanced at him and giggled a bit.
Around two stops later, a lady climbed up. She was middle aged, I reckon and seemed that she had just attended a function, The saree she wore was of Kanjivaram silk which shined even in the dim lighting of the bus. Gold jewellery hanging from her neck and ear lobes. Had her thick black hair plated up with a gajra (garland of jasmine flowers that is tied to the hair). She seated herself on the seat in front of mine. The evening breeze that I warmly welcomed through the window had now brought a gift along. The breeze flowed in with the incredible fragrance of these jasmine flowers! And oh how it left a blush on my cheeks!
As the bus driver pulled over, onto the bridge, I heard the gentle flow of the river below. The conventions were stronger then. I saw the reflection of the night sky and the colourfully lit roads (which ran parallel to the river). I gulped dollops of this art and digested it in my bus diary. For all I knew, I never wanted to forget such beautifully lived moments. Ever!
West End to Baker Bus stop
There are some relations in the world that are built only by coincidental meetings. That don't have superfulous conversations or profound ones. But yet so, when the two people meet, there is an inner satisfaction, A satisfaction of trust and confidence in each other. A satisfaction which defines the relation so well and yet makes it complex with words.
I would travel in bus number 164 weekly. An old lady climbed up along with me. She dad her hair perfectly tied in a bun. As though it was glued to her head. She draped her saree in a manner that didn't reduce the prominance of her ponch. She wore a pair of glasses up her tiny nose. And if in a hurry, she'd walk like a penguin. Probably because her old knees couldn't balance the mass suspended from her bones.
She seemed as frequent as me, so we recognised each other well. Though I never struck a conversation with her and nor did she, her eyes spoke about the trust she had in me. After all, I had been travelling this route since almost three quaters of a year now. She always gave me a feeling of backing. A feeling of satisfaction.
She'd be always rushing to the bus stop, probably from her work place, to be just in time for bus number 164. Ironically, it seemed that she was more satisfied seeing me than knowing whether or not she had missed the bus. Or supposedly she thought of the obvious ("If the young girl is here, I obviously haven't missed the bus").
So well, that evening, the bus arrived late. Prominantly late. Not that it was ever on time, but it was always unnoticebly late. The bus arrives majorly empty so I always tend to catch hold of the seat next to the window. Do you like sitting on the window seat while on bus journeys in the evening? That is my favourite spot! While you get to have a look at the world around you, the evening breeze of Pune will blow off all the tiredness. It is all so magical! Or so I feel.
As I entered the bus, another familiar face caught my eye. The conductor! And again, satisfaction spread a wide smile on my yet-so-tired face. Suddenly, he smiled back and pointed at a vacant seat by the window. Grabbing the opportunity, I glanced at him and giggled a bit.
Around two stops later, a lady climbed up. She was middle aged, I reckon and seemed that she had just attended a function, The saree she wore was of Kanjivaram silk which shined even in the dim lighting of the bus. Gold jewellery hanging from her neck and ear lobes. Had her thick black hair plated up with a gajra (garland of jasmine flowers that is tied to the hair). She seated herself on the seat in front of mine. The evening breeze that I warmly welcomed through the window had now brought a gift along. The breeze flowed in with the incredible fragrance of these jasmine flowers! And oh how it left a blush on my cheeks!
As the bus driver pulled over, onto the bridge, I heard the gentle flow of the river below. The conventions were stronger then. I saw the reflection of the night sky and the colourfully lit roads (which ran parallel to the river). I gulped dollops of this art and digested it in my bus diary. For all I knew, I never wanted to forget such beautifully lived moments. Ever!
