It was 6:30 pm. A rain-drenched Aravind waited expectantly at the bus stand for the penultimate bus to the stop closest to his home. He had shifted schools from the Middle East to Chennai a week back in order to pursue good entrance coaching. And he was starting to get used to what was going to be his routine for the next two years; school till 4 o’clock and tuitions till 6.
The bus arrived. It hadn’t pulled to a complete stop yet but the ‘getting down-getting in’ war ensued; a swarm of people undoing their umbrellas and trying to find ground leg-attacked by another swarm enfolding their umbrellas and trying to find the lowest step. Even if ample seats are available or the crowd is less, adults can’t resist the infantile or rather pirate-like temptation to get in by the roughest of means and grab on to a seat so dear like treasure, thought Aravind (who was swallowed by the mob).
He got one eventually. The bus was waiting its quota of ten minutes before the next bus arrived; the conductor shouted out the parrot-phrase route and gestured at every passer-by to get in, as if his was the only bus to utopia. The bus had gradually become full when a drunken man in his sixties wobbled into it. He didn’t have to create a scene; if you are drunk, you are the scene. Aravind looked on like everyone else as the weak hands desperately found the climbing bar and heaved the body up like a saggy sack of bones. The gossipers had already begun maundering his past; soon Aravind learnt that his only son and daughter-in-law passed away in a landslide not long ago, and he spent most of his pension money quaffing alcohol at the bar while his wife mourned at home. Creating a scene is like hitting a Google/Wiki search button; one click and instant information, simpered Aravind.
He was in, finally. He paused for breath and balance; his sight glided through every occupied seat as his eyelids trembled to stay up. Aravind remembered he was in the ‘Senior Citizen’ seat; a streak of courtesy flashed through him. Though no one cared about the label of one’s seat, at least my stop isn’t far off, Aravind reasoned to himself. He got up and motioned the old drunk to sit; he didn’t comprehend at first, but Aravind nudged him into doing it. His cheeks widened and the wet lips slightly opened to expose the few remaining teeth he had; Aravind acknowledged it as a smile.
The whistle blew. The bus chugged into gear; the conductor jumped in the last after being sworn at by the driver of the recent bus for not taking off earlier. His process of collecting tickets reached the old man; when he understood he was drunk, in an instant his composure changed, and he asked gruffly, “To where?!” He knew where the old fellow was headed to; he popped the question to test his state of intoxication. He was sober enough to answer and take out the ten rupee note out of his shirt pocket. The conductor did the act of rummaging his bag for change and squeezed ahead.
Minutes later, a small scuffle commenced. Aravind looked back only to see the drunk elbowing people trying to get into his seat. His eyes fell on the boy; his bony fingers then wrapped themselves around the fleshy muscle of Aravind’s arm, and pulled him to the seat with quite some force. “My stop is only a little away, grandpa” stated Aravind. “Till then you sit, son…” piffled the old man, “my stop is next…very few kids have courtesy nowadays…they must be encouraged to continue their deed…and pass it in future…I want to die a good man…and good men must return gratitude…I don’t have much time left in this world…and so I help you now itself…I don’t have any means of repaying otherwise…” The bus screeched to a halt; the old drunk got down and was on his way, still walking clumsily but briskly. Aravind had registered the unordered flow of sentences; he thought about it for a moment. Experience and wisdom grew with age, but maybe it takes an eccentric to actually impart them, he said to himself. With an added sense of pride, he got up to offer his seat to the standing disgruntled elders.
