It has finally happened, BEST (Bombay’s public transport buses) has introduced the emperor of all tickets rather a pass, for Rs. 20/- you can literally show a thenga to all the conductors from Bandra to Bhayendar.  For years, I had a dream, a dream to travel on a BEST unrestricted, pointless journey, depot to depot, and catch the sights and sounds of this mad metropolis. Now I can change upto 10 buses in a day sometimes just for two bus stops, saves a lot of pain, anguish, and worn out soles. A tiny piece of paper that would make me immune from shelling out small change and being taken for a ride in the wrong bus just because I opted for French instead of Marathi in school.  Its like an AIDS vaccine, once you get it nothing can touch you till the clock strikes midnight, not even a ticket checker.  No more getting nightmares of figuring out where the fuck is Kanamvar Nagar or or where in God’s name is Prabhodhankar Udyan, just jump right in, walk up to the bully (conductor) in chappals and ask him in pure Hindi if the bus goes anywhere in the vicinity of the intended destination, all this with only a cool 500 rupee note in your purse and still come out with your self-esteem intact, not being to pushed out at the next stop for lack of loose change. I can catch a bus from my doorstep to the depot, the paradise to a window seat and park my behind, behind the ladies seat for a view.  There are 5 sharp screws in front of your face literally inches from your eyeballs, enough to keep a plastic surgeon busy for months, should the driver brake hard and you are not holding on for dear life.  When the conductor comes I pretend to search for change in my wallet, after 2 seconds I pull out the golden ticket.  Now conductors all their life have been trained to accept money and give tickets and change in return, but I like the look on his face when he just has to examine the small piece of paper. He does not have to ask your destination, doesn’t have to bicker and tell you what a big crime it is to not tender exact fare.  He is highly disappointed and it defeats his very purpose of his being on the planet.  He nevers bothers to check the date of the piece of paper that has made him redundant, just points you to keep going ahead silently.

That done the bus will take you to the nearest railway station and get stuck in a jam just for the heck of it, hell the straight road is much quicker but no, the route is planned thus, add to all the congestion 45 x 12 feet of red and silver, just to pick up “passengers”.  The driver muscles the beast through the sea of humanity after squeezing a boob-sized rubber horn that wouldn’t budge a blind dog.  After a few signals we catch the highway.  More migrants join the melee, 19 standees turn into 150 clutchees, holding on for dear life on the apparatus of vertical and horizontal black poles to counter the jerks and thrills that the driver puts the breadbox through. Now 3 lines of people stand huddled as if Bombay was hit by a snowstorm, body odor becomes secondary, primary instinct is to survive and make it to the front exit before you miss your stop. Now a couple of brave girls/women squeeze in with the literally hungry pack of lions, protecting only their breasts, trying to make it to the front in hopes of finding a ladies reserved seat.  I tell you they are a dying species, but some are foolish or they value their punctuality over their dignity or quite literally they enjoy a good rub.

The bus now moves on and an artifical crowd surrounds the ladies. The now 3 to 4 women in the bus now are being attacked on all sides. There is the Times of India clutching, officegoer who sways his hips inching ever so closer to the college girl’s bottom. Then the mavaali types have a field day rubbing their unwashed linen on a neat churidar saying kya karein, peeche se dhaakka aa raha hai. Only one person can save her and he does so ordering the crowd to go ahead, “pudhe chala” banging on the tin roof. Suddenly the victim is free to move her arms and adjust her pallu, while the blue and white collars practice rubbing on each other, honing their skills for the next oppurtunity. Now the conductor brushes along the ladies, they don’t bat an eyelid, that’s because the khaki guy is asexual, he has a licence to rub anything that enters his office, man woman or child without getting a nasty hardon or making the subject feel an microgram of sexual lust.  He is from a different race of humans altogether, almost never sweats, mostly has a moustache, responds only in Marathi. He is docile unless of course you dare provoke him, then he becomes your worst nightmare.

The crowd then thins out and magically disappears, while you’re left drenched and wondering if your life is worth living. You remember Raj Thackery’s speeches and you suddenly become anti-migrant, democracy is dead. You  wonder how much fun it would be to see that illegal hut or shop blocking the road for years being run over by a bulldozer and see the back of that non-tax paying family who are living much closer to the city that you are. You size up and prepare for the day at work ahead and think of an excuse to explain your delay to the boss and punch in for the day, thinking how are you gonna make it back. That’s another story. My only hope is that the revenue loss for the BEST is not that much and they keep the 20-rupee ticket.