It was a cold, rainy morning. To my surprise, I did respond to the alarm I'd set on my mobile phone for 6 AM. Gauging I could sleep for ten more minutes and yet be in time for the cab to work, I set a second wake-up call for 6 10 AM. When my phone crooned, I was promptly awake, again. Swiping off the loud music, the darkness in the room not boding a sunny start, I could hear the rain. Wishing to not let it dampen my enthusiasm ahead of a day-long class-room training, I shut my eye and mumbled my own version of "Inner Peace!"
When I opened my eyes, the clock showed 7 30 AM, and my cab would be at my boarding point in six minutes. On a routine workday, I might have chosen to Work From Home, but the in-person training meant I had to get myself to the office, and latest by 9 30 AM. I could either ride my bike, rent a taxi or an auto rickshaw, or , as a last resort, take the bus. I paused before choosing my commute. I could hear the wind and the rain. The bike was stalled in neutral. That was preferable to riding it through a make-shift waterway in Bangalore, where the roads are designed to transfigure, under the spell of a decent shower, into tributes to the Venetian canals. Well, at least, the paradox of choice had weakened and I only had two alternatives, with the taxi ruling itself out given how taxing it would be on my wee wallet.
On the main road by 8 10 AM, I had begun to favor the auto rickshaw. Across the road, I was glad to see an auto rickshaw parked at each intersection of a cross-road with the main road. Having hurried to the other side, climbing over the median, I went to the rickshaw nearest to me. The driver declined to go anywhere beyond my locality and its sister phases. I walked down the road to the next rickshaw supposed to be available for hire. This driver regretted not being able to cash in on the long ride to my office; he was waiting for a regular client.
8 20 AM, and I'm trying my luck a third time. Another guy on a daily scheduled pick up. I started to walk away, but then, on impulse, asked him if he'll take me to Ragi Gudda, figuring the bus driver shouldn't make such a fuss. He agreed.
After waiting for a few minutes at the bus stop and allowing a couple of buses that seemed like overspilling sandwiches to pass, I saw an AC bus roll in, and it was almost empty at the peak hour of 8 30 AM. Perhaps I wasn't alone in failing to peel myself off the bed on time. Following that unspoken code of ingress, I got into the bus through the rear door. The front door, as also the front section of the bus, is conventionally reserved for the ladies.
I found myself a seat and thought of finishing a prayer - I did not have anything to read and the only sight out the window would be that of a slow stream of vehicles, with the occasional two-wheeler slithering through. I had to take my mind off the clock's ticks and hope to reach the office on time, or, at worst, with minimal delay.
Having run out of verses, I thought of taking a power nap - it takes three quarters of an hour to reach my office by car, taking the bylanes to dodge the traffic on the Outer Ring Road that is throttled the most at that dreaded junction called the 'Silk Board.' I would shut my eyes, but just as I lulled, the bus would lurch to a stop, causing me to panic about time. It wasn't the traffic. The driver, atypically, was stopping for anyone who waved the bus down. It was courteous and also pragmatic, for it would make the trip more economical for the BMTC. But, that didn't stop me from wishing he would only stop at the designated points en route.
I gave up on attempting to sleep, and began, inevitably, to observe the people in the bus and the ones coming through the doors.
In keeping with the convention, most ladies boarded the bus through the front door. The occasional feminist, by choice or prodded by time, would use the rear door. But, no matter how they got in, they would always walk towards the first three or four rows of seats, look for vacancy, and upon not finding it, stand in the aisle, beside those front few rows. They never spied for seats at the back, many of which were empty. The women who accidentally spotted a spot would stop and stare sadly, not making a move for the seat.
Each row had two seats, and while some seats at the back were taken, some were free. The gentlemen sitting by the empty seats were IT professionals - wearing their identity round their necks, and lugging their labour in laptops - and college students, with their big yet light bags, ever plugged-in earphones, and shoes of rebellious shades. Surely such trappings of education should have been sufficient to placate the standing women's hesitation about sharing space with strange male passengers, shouldn't it? But, it wasn't.
I can only wonder if education today is bereft of cultivating civility in the citizens it prepares - without seemingly grooming them - for tomorrow. Do our schools train and educate, but no longer edify? If the answer is yes, it is time to bemoan the system we so vaunt for 'producing' individuals ready to be global professionals, unless your view of the world has no room for women and men are migrating to that proverbial red planet they are alleged to be from.
Each row had two seats, and while some seats at the back were taken, some were free. The gentlemen sitting by the empty seats were IT professionals - wearing their identity round their necks, and lugging their labour in laptops - and college students, with their big yet light bags, ever plugged-in earphones, and shoes of rebellious shades. Surely such trappings of education should have been sufficient to placate the standing women's hesitation about sharing space with strange male passengers, shouldn't it? But, it wasn't.
I can only wonder if education today is bereft of cultivating civility in the citizens it prepares - without seemingly grooming them - for tomorrow. Do our schools train and educate, but no longer edify? If the answer is yes, it is time to bemoan the system we so vaunt for 'producing' individuals ready to be global professionals, unless your view of the world has no room for women and men are migrating to that proverbial red planet they are alleged to be from.
For their part, my fellow male passengers adhered to convention, too. They always used the rear door, and sat after the fourth row, or stood much further behind. So much for the cosmopolitan gender blindness in our public places!
The other thing I noticed about the ladies was their Ninja attire, a veil covering their heads and faces, leaving only the eyes visible. A few of them would let their faces experience the cold air till they had to alight the bus, while the others, perhaps owing to the tedium of having to obscure themselves again, would remain masked. This practice, apparently, is not intended to conceal their identities, but guard their faces against the Sun's evil eye and the wanton pecks of the polluted air. Perhaps the French cities are safer for women at least with regard to these two misogynists. What else could possibly explain France's decision to outlaw the niqab?
Post Script: For those of you who are compelled to put two and two together, let me dispel your speculation about this write-up being a lamentation of the reluctance of a pretty girl in the bus to sit next to me. The seat wasn't vacant! Was there a pretty girl in the bus? I am as privy to it as you are.
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