Bus-Stop...
Dust, smoke, sweat, hustle-bustle and roar; that is the most of a summer Delhi evening. People walk listlessly from their desks to catch the slow buses back home. The rich in their cars drive sluggishly to find a way through the people crossing from anywhere they please, ducking the 2-wheelers that draw a serpentine track on the straight roads. And while so much is in motion, some people are always still. They wait for their chance to move, waiting patiently at the bus-stand.
He stands at one end of the bus-stand. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and tie hangs loosely. She stands at the other end, dressed in a blue kameez with white churidaar pyjamas, and a brown bag clutched under her left shoulder. Her hair scattered and dry by the beat of the sun and the hot winds. All this while a Sunsilk sun control shampoo model covers two-thirds of the top panel of the bus-stand with her dark silken hair.
He looks at her. She looks away at the road and the people passing by or stuck. There is a woman, -somewhere in her 40's- wearing a gaudy synthetic Saree with big floral motifs that fight to compensate for the paucity of summer blooms, that has just moved in. A DTC bus is about to stop, and half of those standing have already started running in anticipation of the place it will actually halt. Some school children in blue shorts and now-brown-once-white-shirts get off. But he is oblivious to all that. He is trying to forget his day in her face. And she knows that, but she wont look at him.
The lady in the Saree starts to talk with her. While he waits for his own chance. Maybe her name, perhaps her number, who knows? Some faces have this power to dissolve the hardships of the day past, bringing you home. Hers was one of them. Not too beautiful, but comforting. He can hear some words of her voice, floating away over the ambient humdrum. Her voice sounds familiar, some girl he knew long ago perhaps. The lady in the Saree keeps up her conversation. He fidgets, looks at her, shifts his weight from one leg to another and then looks away in hope. But she stays inaccessible.
A bus groans to a stop just then. And the lady in the Saree nods her head. He smiles at his awaited chance and tries hard to think of something to say. Something nice, something that she would respond to.
And then in a flutter of blue and white, she boards the bus. The conductor taps the coin in his hand on the last glass windowpane in a piercing clack-clack, and the bus pulls away. The lady in the floral saree turns to another woman who has just arrived. Some conversations are steadfast with time, some die before they are born.
He watches her through the dusty back panes of the retreating bus. Her face fades away into the greying evening sky. There is a long evening ahead. And maybe a longer day tomorrow.
He stands at one end of the bus-stand. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and tie hangs loosely. She stands at the other end, dressed in a blue kameez with white churidaar pyjamas, and a brown bag clutched under her left shoulder. Her hair scattered and dry by the beat of the sun and the hot winds. All this while a Sunsilk sun control shampoo model covers two-thirds of the top panel of the bus-stand with her dark silken hair.
He looks at her. She looks away at the road and the people passing by or stuck. There is a woman, -somewhere in her 40's- wearing a gaudy synthetic Saree with big floral motifs that fight to compensate for the paucity of summer blooms, that has just moved in. A DTC bus is about to stop, and half of those standing have already started running in anticipation of the place it will actually halt. Some school children in blue shorts and now-brown-once-white-shirts get off. But he is oblivious to all that. He is trying to forget his day in her face. And she knows that, but she wont look at him.
The lady in the Saree starts to talk with her. While he waits for his own chance. Maybe her name, perhaps her number, who knows? Some faces have this power to dissolve the hardships of the day past, bringing you home. Hers was one of them. Not too beautiful, but comforting. He can hear some words of her voice, floating away over the ambient humdrum. Her voice sounds familiar, some girl he knew long ago perhaps. The lady in the Saree keeps up her conversation. He fidgets, looks at her, shifts his weight from one leg to another and then looks away in hope. But she stays inaccessible.
A bus groans to a stop just then. And the lady in the Saree nods her head. He smiles at his awaited chance and tries hard to think of something to say. Something nice, something that she would respond to.
And then in a flutter of blue and white, she boards the bus. The conductor taps the coin in his hand on the last glass windowpane in a piercing clack-clack, and the bus pulls away. The lady in the floral saree turns to another woman who has just arrived. Some conversations are steadfast with time, some die before they are born.
He watches her through the dusty back panes of the retreating bus. Her face fades away into the greying evening sky. There is a long evening ahead. And maybe a longer day tomorrow.
posted by AakASH!!! at 9:15 PM
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