I fought my way out from the crowd, every one of whom wanted to be the first to board the bus and somehow managed to put my foot firmly on the footboard of the bus and held the rod tightly. My eyes meticulously started scanning for a vacant seat. It’s a time bound game, where your mind and body have to be there agile best. The mind has to interpret, the data at hand, at lightning speed, and the body has to quickly react with the processed data. Result….you get to be seated in the ever crowded “BEST BUS”.
This is Mumbai meri jaan, where life is a mechanized system of well defined parameters and the output is nothing but a lethargic self who earns his bread and butter from the sugar bowl of the country.
I managed to get myself an aisle seat, right side of the bus. The bus halts at the next stop and then moves again. A white Tee and denim clad gal, crosses my seat and sits across my seat on the left side of the bus though 2 rows ahead. I can’t see her face coz her silky tresses were left open to bedazzle the lethargic mortals of the bus by their free flight in the breeze.
I’m trying, making my eyes make impossible angles to get a look at her face. Desperation…..
Then I get to see her hand….the opposite side of her palm had a scar on it. Looked like a burn scar. I kept looking at it. It fascinated me. I was thinking about the story behind the scar, the events that would have resulted in that scar, the story of the gal who has this scar, and how her face looks like.
The ticket collector called “Master” in Mumbai came to my rescue and played the role of my best friend. She turned back to take her ticket…..What a beautiful face she had….. Yet she had an ugly scar to her hand. I was forced to recall a dialogue from Hamlet where Shakespeare said that even if a thing is very beautiful, one spot, mark, or scar can taint its entire beauty and take away all its credit. Though this was said by Polonius to Ophelia and in context of a girl’s chastity, it holds true for all beautiful objects. We do disregard a beautiful piece, even though its 99.99% beautiful.
It was an instant attraction. I was in love with that scar laden beauty. I kept looking at her scar until she decided to get down on her stop. I missed her for the rest of my journey.
The scar remained in my mind all that night and I kept recalling the picture of her hand, her beautiful face and the silky tresses.
I was returning from work the next day, fought my way again for a vacant seat, and by a strange twist of fate, the girl is again in the same bus. The scar catches my attention again, though her hair was tied. It’s strange, banging into the same gal for 2nd consecutive day. I felt a connection, and a strong urge to talk to her. But I didn’t want to be termed a pervert. India is still not for a guy like me who has a clear conscience and clean intentions. We live through lot of social taboos.
The scar is holding my attention again, it’s a beautiful scar. Yeah I like it. I want to hold that hand, and allay all the pain associated with it, mitigate her fears and give her a smile of mine.
She gets down on her stop, taking away my attention.
I have never seen her again. The journey continues…
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This is Mumbai meri jaan, where life is a mechanized system of well defined parameters and the output is nothing but a lethargic self who earns his bread and butter from the sugar bowl of the country.
I managed to get myself an aisle seat, right side of the bus. The bus halts at the next stop and then moves again. A white Tee and denim clad gal, crosses my seat and sits across my seat on the left side of the bus though 2 rows ahead. I can’t see her face coz her silky tresses were left open to bedazzle the lethargic mortals of the bus by their free flight in the breeze.
I’m trying, making my eyes make impossible angles to get a look at her face. Desperation…..
Then I get to see her hand….the opposite side of her palm had a scar on it. Looked like a burn scar. I kept looking at it. It fascinated me. I was thinking about the story behind the scar, the events that would have resulted in that scar, the story of the gal who has this scar, and how her face looks like.
The ticket collector called “Master” in Mumbai came to my rescue and played the role of my best friend. She turned back to take her ticket…..What a beautiful face she had….. Yet she had an ugly scar to her hand. I was forced to recall a dialogue from Hamlet where Shakespeare said that even if a thing is very beautiful, one spot, mark, or scar can taint its entire beauty and take away all its credit. Though this was said by Polonius to Ophelia and in context of a girl’s chastity, it holds true for all beautiful objects. We do disregard a beautiful piece, even though its 99.99% beautiful.
It was an instant attraction. I was in love with that scar laden beauty. I kept looking at her scar until she decided to get down on her stop. I missed her for the rest of my journey.
The scar remained in my mind all that night and I kept recalling the picture of her hand, her beautiful face and the silky tresses.
I was returning from work the next day, fought my way again for a vacant seat, and by a strange twist of fate, the girl is again in the same bus. The scar catches my attention again, though her hair was tied. It’s strange, banging into the same gal for 2nd consecutive day. I felt a connection, and a strong urge to talk to her. But I didn’t want to be termed a pervert. India is still not for a guy like me who has a clear conscience and clean intentions. We live through lot of social taboos.
The scar is holding my attention again, it’s a beautiful scar. Yeah I like it. I want to hold that hand, and allay all the pain associated with it, mitigate her fears and give her a smile of mine.
She gets down on her stop, taking away my attention.
I have never seen her again. The journey continues…
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I hear these chuckles of a kid coming from the front of the bus. Then I hear some laughing, then a scolding, and some more laughing.
A spastic kid sitting in front of the bus is catching people’s attention. Few morons scolding him for they cant understand him.
I’m fascinated by his world and amused by the happiness he was exuding. He was crowded by some 50 odd morons in that bus including me, but that didn’t bother him. He was very much in his world, thoroughly enjoying it, and living every bit of it which none of those morons did. I had stopped it long back.
He spoke to himself, telling himself about things which amused him; he would laugh, chuckle and then get silent. He looked at things with lot of curiosity. A sense of wonder would grasp him, something that his senses could not comprehend and the other morons never bothered to understand it.
He would tell someone about something and would either laugh or get silent at the response of his invisible friend.
Fascinating….
I’m jealous of him. He has what none of the moron’s in that bus can ever get. He holds the secret to life, and is very subtly, giving it out too. We are too stupid to even get a bit of it.
A spastic kid sitting in front of the bus is catching people’s attention. Few morons scolding him for they cant understand him.
I’m fascinated by his world and amused by the happiness he was exuding. He was crowded by some 50 odd morons in that bus including me, but that didn’t bother him. He was very much in his world, thoroughly enjoying it, and living every bit of it which none of those morons did. I had stopped it long back.
He spoke to himself, telling himself about things which amused him; he would laugh, chuckle and then get silent. He looked at things with lot of curiosity. A sense of wonder would grasp him, something that his senses could not comprehend and the other morons never bothered to understand it.
He would tell someone about something and would either laugh or get silent at the response of his invisible friend.
Fascinating….
I’m jealous of him. He has what none of the moron’s in that bus can ever get. He holds the secret to life, and is very subtly, giving it out too. We are too stupid to even get a bit of it.
I’m jealous of him. His happiness is choking
I’m jealous of him. His world is such a wonderful place to be.
I’m jealous of him. He has a friend to talk to.
I’m jealous of him. People don’t bother or deter him.
I’m jealous of him. He has not lost his sense of wonder.
I’m jealous of him. He is what he wants to be.
I’m jealous of him. He is intelligent and he doesn’t have to prove it to anyone.
I’m jealous of him. He has contentment.
I’m jealous of him. His soul is free of vices.
I’m jealous of him. He holds no pretences.
I’m jealous of him. He has not lost his smile.
I’m jealous……
