The Bus Ride
This bus is very crowded. I should have waited for the next one.
I was not going to get a place to sit. Now I need to make a choice again. Which of these tired and sweaty bodies should I press myself against today? Which of these stranger’s unwelcoming chests should I resist resting my head against today? I looked at my watch, willing for time to pass quickly. I looked at my watch again, willing for the bus to move faster. There was dinner to be made, homework to be supervised, clothes to be folded and preparations for another day of living to be made. I was getting back from work. I was going home to work. No, I wasn’t complaining. I don’t usually complain. Others complain all the time. Like that lady who is sitting on the third row, on the left, by the window. While bodies around her barely have air to breathe, that lady, on the third row, on the left, by the window is complaining.
The bus is so packed, how will I get down when my stop arrives, she says. Her voice raised, as though, somehow it is our fault that we wanted to go back to our houses.
Home, not house, I often remind myself as the bus without any hint of grace, comes to a screeching halt. I don’t need to look above the heads of others to know that it is not my stop. I don’t need to count the number of times the bus stops to know when my home has arrived. I just know. Been on this bus and this route for five years now. I can tell when home arrives.
A few bodies trickle out of the bus and a lot more get added. This doesn’t seem fair. The bus is unusually packed today. I want to reach for a tissue from inside my bag and wipe my brow. I want to reach for my water-bottle inside my bag and take a sip. I want to take that crushed chocolate bar and feel its gooey, rich, creamy and sweet taste on my tongue. I want so many things. Like that poet my father used to quote, a thousand desires of the heart, each one of them life consuming. But there is no space to reach for my bag. There is no space to move my arms. There is no way that I can wipe sweat, drink water or eat chocolate without troubling one of the bodies around me. And so, I just stand there, staring at chests and looking at my watch.
Another stop, this time the bus is gentler. This one is not my home either. The bus gets less crowded. And I take in some air and enjoy the brief respite. And then the newer bodies push themselves in. Newer perfumes make an entry. Cheap perfumes that make an entrance before the body that is wearing it. I try not to recoil or cringe. These are bodies, just bodies, who am I to judge them? Who am I to feel superior over them? Who am I?
The chests that I am staring at keep changing. Sometimes they are men. Sometimes they are women. And sometimes I can’t tell. But I usually don’t care. Until today that is, when it was the turn of the man in the blue shirt. His broad chest now stands next to mine. There was perfume, just the hint of it, very likely the one that he wore in the morning, twelve hours ago. But he also smelt of whisky, perhaps single malt. I wonder if he drank it out of a nice glass. Did he add ice? Did he mix something in it? I think he probably had it neat, he seemed liked that kind of person. I stared at his hands, clutching an evening newspaper. Brown hands with long fingers, like an artist. He probably had a firm handshake. Warm, comforting and beautiful hands. I almost wanted to pull his hands towards me, just to check, because I was curious and because home seemed so far away.
Another stop. Again not my home. No bodies were got rid of here, but a few got added anyway. I could feel the repercussions. New bodies pushed the bodies near the door, and they in turn pushed the ones next to them, and then next to them and so on. Now my own chest was neatly aligned itself against that of the man in the blue shirt. His thighs pressed against mine. Our hips joined together. His whisky breath and my lavender perfume mingling and creating something terrible and dangerous. Our bodies fitted each other’s perfectly. I tried not to shift around too much. I tried to be as still as possible. And then suddenly, I relaxed, my chest now pressed against this stranger with beautiful brown hands. It had been a long day and I was tired. I shut my eyes. I could now almost taste the whiskey. Yes, definitely single malt. And then I felt it. That knot on my chest. Small, soft and secretive.
This bus is very crowded. I should have waited for the next one.
~
Radhika Venkatarayan lives in Chennai, India. Her work has previously appeared in Out of Print Magazine, One Forty Fiction, Muse India and Helter Skelter Magazine. She was a finalist in the Feminist Flash Fiction Contest 2011 organised by Mookychick. She work with a non-profit in the area of healthcare.