A Ride Back Home

As I discovered, a year and a half in Germany is not long enough to get so used to luxury, that one cannot manage with what’s actually necessary. Consider the public transport system for instance. Having survived the city buses in Bengaluru (once upon a time called ‘Bangalore’) through the years of college and job, the local trains and buses in Germany are definitely a luxury in contrast – punctual, sparsely occupied, smooth ride and seating almost always available. But luxury is accompanied by discipline – stopping only at stops, entering only in a queue, no opening windows and no sitting at the open door of the moving train! Being spoiled by order for a considerable time, I have often wondered if it would be tough to get adjusted to the imperfect systems, once back in India. But my experience during the home trip this march confirmed otherwise.

A short walk brought me to the bus stop nearest to my aunt’s place in a residential part of Bengaluru. A bus was just driving away as I arrived. I instinctively dashed after it, signaling to the driver with waving hands. My age and physical condition commanded only a reduction in the speed of the bus, so I sprang onto the foot-board and grabbed the closest rod. Feeling quite proud of the feat I had not had a chance at for some time, I found just enough space for both my feet on the floor of the bus.

Being the peak morning hour, I was compelled to accept the ‘closeness and warmth’ of the office-goers. But I had no intentions of gifting my wallet or mobile phone to any one of them in return. So I reminded myself to constantly be on guard for any hands in my pockets other than my own! With one hand on my wallet and the FM radio playing faintly into my ears, reminding me of the continued presence of my phone, I could safely hold on to an overhead rod with my other hand. Having bought my ticket from a gymnast of a conductor doing his rounds, I settled to observe the sights and sounds in and around.

Most sounds from within seemed to have something to do with mobile phones, a must-have in India today. Some of the most important people must have been riding with me, because phones rang constantly and a couple of phone conversations even lasted throughout my journey. A few not-so-important commuters entertained the rest of us with FM radio playing loudly on their handsets. The rest was the noise of traffic jam, brought to you by idle drivers and idling engines – the honking, the swearing and the revving.

The sights were more amusing. Blessed were those who occupied the seats and they had to ‘give back to society’ by carrying the bags of standing commuters on their laps, whether they volunteered to or not. A short tussle of prospective takers always ensued when one of the ‘chairmen’ showed signs of getting off. Heads turned as bored men in colourful shirts indulged themselves with the colour of the fairer sex in passing buses! Commuters boarded and alighted at will in the slow moving traffic and bus stops became quite redundant. The bikers and autowalas took advantage of the steering handle to maneuver into the narrowest possible gaps, irritating those driving with steering wheels. The closer to the city centre we got, the slower progress became. Some meetings would have to be postponed, some appointments cancelled and some connecting transport missed. It seemed to be a long and unyielding battle between the fast metropolitan life and the slow moving traffic. However the latter was winning.

Being lost in this reverie, I almost missed my stop. Once back to reality, I struggled towards the door in a hurry, inviting frowns and fuss, but managed to alight just as the bus moved on into the ever thickening traffic. But for some reason, I wasn’t complaining. I somehow felt comfortable in this setting, in spite of the lack of comfort. It felt good to be back home.