Bus travel, with the increase in population, was becoming more and more difficult. Getting into or out of the bus, reaching on time, finding out where the bus would stop—all these required an art, craft, or a well-exercised endeavor, or whatever you may choose to call it.

With thick glasses and bad eyesight, I couldn’t drive a vehicle. Most of my colleagues had vehicles of their own, mostly two-wheelers, whose population was exploding. I am talking about the early 1990s here. Now, of course, we’ve switched to four-wheelers.

So, the bus was my only mode of transport. Who could afford an auto-rickshaw, let alone a taxi, to travel a distance of more than 10 km? My salary dictated that I avoid such super luxuries. And I had to take at least two buses. The timing of the bus at the stop near my house was known—provided there was no breakdown, which was not uncommon, stranding the passengers, who would later, with drooping heads, apologize for the late arrival to their superiors, for no fault of theirs. At the terminal, there was a chance you could get a seat, but here, no way. I was not a leg-shaking coward, but that didn’t mean I was comfortable traveling on the footboard. So, I would push ahead into the crowd and try to get in a little bit. There were some notorious routes that pickpockets frequented, hovering around at the back near the entrance or exit (depending on what you did with that opening) so that it gave them a quick exit. That was another reason I wanted to get in—I didn’t want to end up borrowing to see the rest of the month through. I would try to find a relatively cozy place and, with my head in my right hand, try to doze. And this has, several times, resulted in my inability to ‘catch’ a seat that felt vacant. Co-passengers would laugh at me, but I didn’t care. Some other nimble-footed passenger would find the seat.

Invariably, you are bound to be pasted with somebody else’s sweat as they brush aside the non-yielding fellows to move forward or disembark. You too, in your own turn, do that.

Getting in, getting out, or moving within the bus required careful footwork. You should not accidentally brush or lightly touch any of the womenfolk, incurring their wrath. Look at it from their perspective—they are sensitive. How would they know if you did it accidentally or deliberately? Imagine if it had been your own sister and somebody else did that. Much earlier, the last long seat was reserved for women. Worst place to sit. Then a few seats in the back rows were reserved. Thereafter, the entire left side was reserved. They needed and deserved this. Still, some women or girls had to travel standing.

Seldom have I gone to the office late. That meant ensuring I never missed the bus. And remember, I had to change buses. In that bus stop, where umpteen buses would stop, you had to be on the lookout for the appropriate bus, which may be standing five buses away. By the time you run, the bus would move away. Such were the pains of this travel to the office.

Continued in 116. Taken for a Ride - Part 2