This is a personalised essay that explores the author’s experience with DTC buses as a Delhiite. It seeks to map the sentimental role that a public transport service can play in a frequent commuter’s life.
I thought I’d write about buses. The first time I sat on a bus was when I was 5, at least that is what I remember. I got enrolled in what my parents proudly call “the best girls school in Delhi” – Presentation Convent Sr. Secondary School. It’s almost as fancy as Delhi Public School (not really). My school sits bang in the middle of Chandni Chowk on a graveyard (well, obviously). It was 8 km away from our home so the parents decided to opt for the school-enabled bus service. My bus was green. Almost as a welcome gesture, the seats were torn with the sponge sticking out at odd places and windows that refused to budge open. We used to pick at the sponge with our nails. On the first day of school, papa held my hand, walked me to the conductor and told me to memorise his name and face. On my second day of school, my class teacher, an especially modern woman (she wore knee-length skirts) wrote the bus number on the back of my hand and walked me to the bus. I leapt and held my hand up like a trophy when I recognised conductor uncle’s familiar face. I used to sit with him when I’d miss my parents. That he had a droopy moustache is all I can remember about him now. At 5, I had decided I liked the bus. I liked putting my face out of the large windows with cars zooming past me. I had memorised every stop, every turn. I was quick to learn of the hierarchy in the seating arrangement – the snooty senior school students sat at the back and we gremlins took the front rows. It was an unspoken rule, everybody knew.
Then I got into 7th class. I started playing badminton and would stay back after school for practice. Maa would come pick me up. We’d go home by the DTC bus no. 901 or 185 that dropped us at GTB Nagar, closest to home. I did not like the bus anymore. I was embarrassed, you see. The 5 rupee fare was cheap and convenient. It was everything a thirteen-year-old hated. So, I’d try to get maa to stand away from the bus stop, which was right outside my school. It would be the end of the world if any of my friends saw me take the public bus. And I would smirk on days when after an hour of waiting, the bus would refuse to come and maa would have to relent to an auto rickshaw ride of 80 rupees. It has been 7 years now and I hate spending more than 20 rupees on a rickshaw, bus, auto and all things transport. I am stingy. Today, I also know that my friends would have probably not ditched me because of the bus. But I didn’t know this back then.
All of 20 years, I am no longer in school. But you know, I travel by bus; it drops me about 1.5 km away from my college. On days that I feel fancy, I take a rickshaw, on others, I walk. Earlier, the bus cost me a ticket of 10 rupees, but now, the fare has been waived for ladies. Governments come and go but the ones that make buses free are my favourite. Naturally, it is more crowded now and the race to get a seat is not for beginners. No. It requires calculation and expertise. You must know the exact timings. And yet, you must also know that the bus will almost never come on time. Don’t be naive. And as soon as you see the number of the bus that will take you home, you must strategically place yourself at the point where you know, no, you are certain the bus will stop with its door open right in your face, ready to pile you up. Many others will try to oust you, board the rumbling beast and secure the best seat only to leave you standing with the other losers. But you must be smart. If you are a seasoned traveller, you will know that the key is to be quick on your feet, to hurl yourself inside no matter who tugs at your shirt. You fight as if your life depends on it because it is not just a seat, it is an average of 20 minutes of comfort and a smug smile on your face as you sit, while others…stand. No matter the despair and failure in your life otherwise, know that you are a winner for the next 20 minutes. If you are nice, really nice, then you’ll offer your seat to an older lady, but no one really does that. You’d have to be a fool. Once inside, you see a series of arms hanging from the railing overhead and everybody looking at each other listlessly. It is boring, but you can always look into your co-passenger’s phone screen. Once, an aunty stood next to me in a bus brimming with people. A school kid sat. Aunty told the kid to go get the tickets for both of them. By the time the kid jostled his way through the sea of sweaty armpits to the conductor, got the ticket, and made his way back, he found aunty dearest perched on his seat. And of course, he didn’t dare ask her to get up. How could he? Sassy aunties rule the world.
The bus is a site of forging friendships and rivalries. If you inch your head close enough, you can almost hear someone ranting to her bestie about her boyfriend’s latest tantrums. In summer, at least 3 people will always say,”aaj garmi bahut ho rahi hai”, and all loyal travellers will nod their heads in agreement. One weather forecaster will predict rain for the next day; sighs of relief. Because babies are everywhere, one will be crying at the top of its voice. And then there will always be that one uncle who will right on cue, play a Shri Ram bhajan at full volume. Earphones are for the woke.
I think I like buses. For now, at least.
Image Credits: Hindustan Times
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Chetna Rani
