Whenever I enter a bus,
There's always a person with
His bags on the seat.
Sniffing suspicion off anyone
Who stands in his proximity-
He doesn't give away
The spare seat unless
The conductor hails upon
Him with authority.
A turban-clad old man
With a coarse voice.
Behaves like he has figured
It all out. Politicians in his
Pockets like spare coins-
Preaching morality to
Young people.
He expects everyone to
Fall in line.
Another typo who always
Runs out of change and
Counters the conductor
With his anger over the
The potholes on the road.
For his own mistakes, he
Has to always blame the
Government.
The woman, past forties,
Protesting for her missed stop
Or sometimes getting
On the wrong bus.
She always has to reduce
Her son's age by a decade
To get the ticket for half.
The dude with his earphones,
Always lost in his phone.
Looking at the GPS for his stops.
Needs to be shouted back to
Reality- to have him pay for ticket,
Before he jumps off in angst.
The kid who always has
His parents scream for his
Nature's call- maybe his bowels
Only get triggered by the
Wobble of this tin-box.
Then there are these
College nibbas who have to
Stand by the door to pass
Random comments.
Though I've done that in my days,
Seems like a nuisance now.
And there's someone
Like me. In fact, that's me.
Always standing
Without having a seat-
Waiting for someone to get up.
I wait like a mantis to
To hold on to the empty seats.
All these strangers,
Having become quite familiar
Over time.
Some I hate without reason,
Some I despise.
Some are just irksome-
Without whom the feel of the
Journey seems incomplete.
And of the only few people I like.
The considerate conductor,
Reasonable driver and maybe
The old lady standing there
Like rock without any ruckus.
And you of course, always in
A chudi or jeans- just of
Right height and hairstyle.
You look like 'her' from
The back-
Please don't turn back
And catch my eyes.
I just want to look at you
As long as I can,
To keep the illusion of her
In you intact.
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