05:21 AM, Bus 859, New Delhi Railway Station
The Delhi Stories
About a dozen regular and non-regular passengers boarded the bus, number 859, including a seasoned commuter. The driver was restless to take off his left leg off the clutch but kept on revving the engine for the benefit of unhurried commuter loitering by a tea stall or paanwala; also to alert a passenger who had just arrived somewhere from India and alighted at the New Delhi Railway Station.
The activity in and around the railway station had not changed in any way thought it was a time when the Government of India had abrogated the Article 370 from its Constitution; the Delhi government had declared war on chickengunya and dengue to protect its residents from malarial diseases.
Bus number 859’s starting point is on the Daryaganj Gangj-entrance of New Delhi Railway Station. The other entrance is on the Ajmeri Gate.
The bus conductor checked the time on his time-tested HMT wristwatch, and finally whistled: go. The doors, at the front of the bus by the driver and in the middle, closed with a smooth sound. The bus conductor started his primary duty of the day to collect the money from the passengers and to dispense the tickets to them.
Ticket, ticket, shouted the bus conductor as he paced in the bus. He stopped at row where a sanyasi-looking passenger sat. The passenger wriggled out a one-hundred-rupee note from his inner garment and held it in his hand, but the bus conductor grabbed the note and placed it in his bag, and punched a ticket to his destination that costed twenty rupees. Instead of handing him over the change, the bus conductor wrote the rest of the amount on the back of the ticket and tendered the ticket to the passenger. The passenger struggled to understand and looked up at the bus conductor. “Collect the rest of the money when you will get down at your destination,” said the bus conductor hastily in Hindi.
The bus conductor might not have the right change to hand it over to the passenger, or he would reckon the passenger would forget to collect his money. In this way, the bus conductor had a chance to earn a little money, extra money, every day when on duty.
When the bus was about to reach its third stop on the Outer Circus of Connaught Circus, and the bus conductor was yet to issue the tickets to all the boarded passengers. A youthful passenger got up from the last row of the bus and rushed past the bus conductor towards the front door of the bus to get down at the next stop. But the bus conductor noticed the seasoned commuter. He yelled at him who rushed past him, “Bhosdike, ticket lelo.” And the bus conductor withdrew his eye contact from that seasoned commuter, and muttered while issuing a ticket to another passenger, “Char so bis, sube sube.” 420-types in the morning, morning.
Section 420 of the Indian Penal Code deals with cheating, minor and major, frivolous and significant. And, people abused people for wrongdoing as 420-types.
The youthful passenger paced back from the front door and lunged at the bus conductor and returned his abusive remark in equal vein. “Bhenchod, lelo.” And he thrusted a ten rupee note into the hand of the bus conductor. The bus conductor was irritated at the passenger’s swear word and his physical contact, and yelled at him, “Hat jao, gandu.” Arsehole get off, from me.
The word ‘gaandu’ infuriated the passenger, further. The passenger took out another five rupee note and thrusted into the left pocket of the bus conductor’s shirt and said: “le lo mere gaand.” Take my arse. And the hijra in him came out: he turned himself and brought his buttocks closer to the bus conductor’s groin and shouted, “Maderchod, le lo mere gaand.”
The bus conductor was taken aback and struggled how to counter the unexpected behaviour of this passenger. But the retirement-nearing bus conductor could not see another person in that passenger. He tried to brush him off. “Djao gaandu.” Go away arsehole. But the word ‘gaandu’ only infuriated the passenger further. The volley of verbal abuses poured out from the seasoned commuter till the bus driver shouted as he drove, “Should I stop the bus?”
No one came forward to broker peace between them.
The youthful passenger did not stop his verbal attack laced with physical gestures that called for physical intimacy till the bus turned and stopped at the first stop on the Outer Circus of Connaught Circus. The passenger got off from the door in the middle of the bus after he warned the bus conductor one more time: le lo mere gaand, maderchod.
Two passengers boarded the bus, the doors were shut, and the bus started its journey. The bus conductor felt relieved with that gaandu passenger’s absence, and shouted, ticket ticket, ticket ticket.
Once the tickets were issued to all the passengers, the bus conductor stood in the roomy doorway in the middle of the bus battling with his eyes that were moistening. The moisture in the eyes condensed into drops. The tears dropped down from his eyes. He said to himself half-of-a-year, more and that would be the end, an end to this wretched life on this wretched place. Ticket, ticket, he shouted when the bus stopped at The Statesman.
The bus driver steered the bus from the Outer Circus of the Connaught Circus on to Kasturba Gandhi Marg. The road was clear except for the traffic lights still blinking: yellow, red, and green in succession.
