The bark of the conductor shouting at the top of his voice ‘Villupuram,
Villupuram…’ leaning on the mud covered
green bus sounds like Beethoven’s fifth.
I climb in. Settle down on the window
seat to the left of the driver.. The smell of the earth is still fresh from the light drizzle ten
minutes back. It is eleven at night but the crowds still mill around in
Koyambedu bus stand. My eyes wander. The baby in the red sari clad girl’s arms cries. The harried husband two steps
ahead, with two suitcases in hand, is irritated. ‘Can’t you stop her crying?’ he
mutters under his breath to his wife and continues with his frantic search for
that Nagappatinam bus. The Inji Muraba vendor suddenly appears like a genie
near my seat. ‘Only 5 rupees sir’ he pleads, but I am not interested. This is
not Inji Muraba time for I am clean now. This is not the red- sari-girl- gazing time too. This is
my own time. This is my own travel time. This is my own wanderlust time and I
would not want to trade one second of it for petty diversions like Inji Murabas.
Half the bus gets filled up. The conductor reluctantly asks
the driver to start. The driver gets in, blares the horn twice to assure
himself all is well with the locomotive machinery, shifts the gears to reverse
and eases the bus out of the bay. In about 15 minutes, off we are, cruising
along the 100 feet road. The driver switches on the FM radio. ‘katru
vangapponen, oru kavidhai vangi vandhen….’ fills the bus. Cool breeze hits my face with a force. The
drizzle restarts. As if waiting for that cue, all the other window seaters pull
down the glass shutters. Not me. Never. For this is my seat. This is my
face-to-face with the rain and the wind. This is my time. This is my travel
time. This is my wanderlust time.
Have not we all experienced the sheer pleasure of commuting
from point A to point B at some point of our lives? However miserable that life
be, have not we all felt nostalgic about that commute we had 30 years back? Doesn’t that nostalgia feed your burning desire to do an encore now, tomorrow,
the day after, the year later, again and again, till our time comes to bid
farewell? Points A and B may shift but is not the transit between any two points
a sheer pleasure, ecstatic parts of that whole called life? What is life without travel? A sedentary,
stable life is but a dead life. Don’t folks even chuck cushy corporate jobs to
latch on to the travel bandwagon? Is not that the new fad now?
The bus is now speeding along the GST Road. TMS has retired
for the night and Raja takes over. ‘ponnukkenna aachu nethu, nenjukkulla
sarakkathu…’ I suddenly remember the red sari ponnu at the bus stand. What
could she be doing now? Did they catch the Nagapattinam bus? The baby is still
wailing? Has the husband thankfully dozed off?
The rain has stopped and the air has got cooler. Luckily there
is no one on the seat beside me. The drone of the bus engine surprisingly does
not distract me from the song. The lights are out and only the blue ‘night lamp’
glows somewhere behind. I drift into a half sleep. TMS takes over again and as if from a distant
world from the stars above wafts ‘oru naalile…..ennavam?’ I am in a dream
world. ‘ennavam.....’ haunts. ‘ennavam....’ lures.. ‘ennavam…’ seduces. The red sari girl
whispers…'ennavam..’ The baby is not to be seen now. Nor the husband. ….The girl floats off the Nagappatinam bus and smoothly glides inside my bus and sits
beside me. ’ennavam…. ‘ she whispers. ‘ennavam…’ she leans closer and whispers
again. I drift deep into that bliss called sleep. Even she can’t distract me
now. For this is my time. This is my wanderlust time……..
