The faces came closer, each one blending into the next. Ramu felt a deep haze settle over his mind when the first blow came.
Things had started normally enough that day. In his small house the same sounds had woken him to the new day: the carts selling their wares, the nearby temple mingling its tolling bells with the call of the muezzin from the mosque. He heard the toilet next door flush just as his clock told him it was 6.30am. Late, late, late!!! His throbbing head, the only evidence of last night’s indulgence with his friends at the local adda. He should be grateful, he supposed. Small bribes and hitting his wife for dowry had at least paid for a separate toilet of his own. Otherwise he would have had to wait in line like all the others at the end of roadway for their turn at the smelly pot and a small tap with a weak trickle of water. He stumbled to the bathroom almost stepping over his youngest son. That reminded him… fees for school were due that day. No doubt his wife would remind him at least 20 times that day… What use was all this studying anyway? His three children were at different stages in school. The oldest son constantly in trouble with the porrukkis at school. He would have to find him a job soon. And he would have to get his daughter married soon too. She might as well stay home and help her mother instead of learning, what was that subject, ah yes, geography! Fat use knowing where Kenya was on a map if you can’t make dosais at home, he thought grimly. Stepping out after a hurried bath, he glanced disinterestedly at the idlis awaiting him. Again…. Really, the woman has no sense at all. How can a man get through the day till his break with that in his belly? His wife saw the glance and was on cue with the reminder for some money for fees. No matter, he was going to have a proper breakfast at the local eat out anyway. What did another ten rupees matter? After all he needed the sustenance. Eating two idlis, he pulled on his khaki uniform and set out. She knew what he was going to do and started shouting behind his retreating back as he headed out. Don’t forget the money she said, and we need some for groceries too, you useless good-for-nothing. I should never have married you...three children…in this big expensive city…. What are we going to do? Ramu barely heard her over the slamming of the rickety door on his way out.
Some of his friends were hanging around the lane, some brushing their teeth disinterestedly, some deciding if a bath was worth the wait in line. He waved to all of them knowing they envied his little bathroom with its makeshift plumbing. He smiled satisfiedly sensing their jealousy. His favourite eating joint was crowded but he was a regular. A masala dosa and coffee and he was off. His bus was waiting for him. His chariot, his steed. His pride and his prison rolled into one. He loved driving his bus. He sat atop the city’s traffic. Everybody was scared of him. Even the autos. Inside the bus he reigned supreme. He could be magnanimous and let people pass or be brutal and push them out of his way with his sheer might. Even the cops thought twice before they stopped him. But the building traffic in the city had robbed him of a lot of joy of driving. Coupled with the bad steering wheel, which felt terrible with a rapidly arthritic arm, and long hours at the wheel, he had lost his initial boyish enthusiasm for the job. Now he only hoped he had a good day with no idiots getting in the way. No stupid motorcyclists, no fancy cars with dumb drivers and no cops. Ha...let them try today he thought grimly…just let them…
He had driven buses along most routes in his 15 years with the city’s transport system but this route was his favourite. It took him through the city’s landmarks…the railway station, the famous market with its amazing flowers and vegetables hoarded every morning and evening, a public hospital, and a century-old church. But the nice part of the route was a small stretch along a graveyard, fittingly uncrowded and peaceful. Except for the regular roar of the bus’ engine as he pulled up to pick up passnegers from the bus-stop. His conductor today was an old friend, Karthik. Nice guy, they worked well as a team. He grinned to think of the stories they had shared, the frequent jostling of suspicious female passengers on crowded days, the cut they had taken from a pickpocket caught in the act, the random harassment of college boys too big for their boots, the desperate looks of people watching the bus leave just as they got to it. That was always funny, he thought, even after so many years. And Karthik would always time it well, blowing the whistle only when the man or woman thought they had made the bus in time to watch it belch its way to its next destination.
He strated up the engine and they were on their way. Just thirty minutes late. Not too bad. He could fudge the time on his sheet and take off 15 minutes from that. Market, station, church…the bus was full, the day was hot and Ramu was getting irritable. Three giggling girls had begged to leave their bags near his steering wheel so they could hang on for dear life to the rod near the door. They kept chatting while maintaining their balance on the curvy road. Lunch seemed to have been a long time ago and Ramu desperately wanted something better than the now-warm water that was within reach. The graveyard was coming in sight. Usually no people at that stop, but today there seemed to be a small crowd there. A group in mourning. On a whim Ramu decided he wouldn’t stop. The bus was full anyway. Nobody would blame him. He signaled to Karthik that he would keep going. He saw them too late. A grandfather and his grandchild toddling along, crossing the street. Not fast enough to avoid the sudden burst of speed Ramu had put on to avoid the busstop. Not fast enough to hear the shouted warnings. Not fast enough to step a few inches away to escape the hurtling bus. It was a blur, mangled limbs, a bleeding toddler lying by the roadside, the grandfather nowhere in sight. And then Ramu saw the arm, flung across the road as though in a desperate attempt to cross the road in time. And then he saw the leg. And he knew what had happened. Should he run or stop to help? What could he do anyway? It was an accident. And then he saw the faces.
They started to come together in groups…people from the busstop carrying the rage of a missed bus, people along the road left forever with the image of a ripped-off arm from an old man, people who had been in front of a bullying busdriver before, the boys he and Karthik had tormented, the women who had been jostled. A sea of faces…angry, waiting for revenge. And they were in front of his bus. His windshield shattered and a stone landed near his foot. Then he saw they had sticks and bigger stones. Maybe he could run to the back and take cover. He turned. The bus had emptied of women and children. Karthik was nowhere to be seen. A few men were left. They had seen the accident and they had chosen a side. In their hands were handles and window stoppers and loose rods from the seats. There was no place to go. The faces came closer. Ramu felt one stone hit his temple and a crushing blow to his stomach. He thought briefly, irrationally, of the school fees that would not be paid now, or ever, before they dragged him out of the bus. There would be two deaths that day.
Things had started normally enough that day. In his small house the same sounds had woken him to the new day: the carts selling their wares, the nearby temple mingling its tolling bells with the call of the muezzin from the mosque. He heard the toilet next door flush just as his clock told him it was 6.30am. Late, late, late!!! His throbbing head, the only evidence of last night’s indulgence with his friends at the local adda. He should be grateful, he supposed. Small bribes and hitting his wife for dowry had at least paid for a separate toilet of his own. Otherwise he would have had to wait in line like all the others at the end of roadway for their turn at the smelly pot and a small tap with a weak trickle of water. He stumbled to the bathroom almost stepping over his youngest son. That reminded him… fees for school were due that day. No doubt his wife would remind him at least 20 times that day… What use was all this studying anyway? His three children were at different stages in school. The oldest son constantly in trouble with the porrukkis at school. He would have to find him a job soon. And he would have to get his daughter married soon too. She might as well stay home and help her mother instead of learning, what was that subject, ah yes, geography! Fat use knowing where Kenya was on a map if you can’t make dosais at home, he thought grimly. Stepping out after a hurried bath, he glanced disinterestedly at the idlis awaiting him. Again…. Really, the woman has no sense at all. How can a man get through the day till his break with that in his belly? His wife saw the glance and was on cue with the reminder for some money for fees. No matter, he was going to have a proper breakfast at the local eat out anyway. What did another ten rupees matter? After all he needed the sustenance. Eating two idlis, he pulled on his khaki uniform and set out. She knew what he was going to do and started shouting behind his retreating back as he headed out. Don’t forget the money she said, and we need some for groceries too, you useless good-for-nothing. I should never have married you...three children…in this big expensive city…. What are we going to do? Ramu barely heard her over the slamming of the rickety door on his way out.
Some of his friends were hanging around the lane, some brushing their teeth disinterestedly, some deciding if a bath was worth the wait in line. He waved to all of them knowing they envied his little bathroom with its makeshift plumbing. He smiled satisfiedly sensing their jealousy. His favourite eating joint was crowded but he was a regular. A masala dosa and coffee and he was off. His bus was waiting for him. His chariot, his steed. His pride and his prison rolled into one. He loved driving his bus. He sat atop the city’s traffic. Everybody was scared of him. Even the autos. Inside the bus he reigned supreme. He could be magnanimous and let people pass or be brutal and push them out of his way with his sheer might. Even the cops thought twice before they stopped him. But the building traffic in the city had robbed him of a lot of joy of driving. Coupled with the bad steering wheel, which felt terrible with a rapidly arthritic arm, and long hours at the wheel, he had lost his initial boyish enthusiasm for the job. Now he only hoped he had a good day with no idiots getting in the way. No stupid motorcyclists, no fancy cars with dumb drivers and no cops. Ha...let them try today he thought grimly…just let them…
He had driven buses along most routes in his 15 years with the city’s transport system but this route was his favourite. It took him through the city’s landmarks…the railway station, the famous market with its amazing flowers and vegetables hoarded every morning and evening, a public hospital, and a century-old church. But the nice part of the route was a small stretch along a graveyard, fittingly uncrowded and peaceful. Except for the regular roar of the bus’ engine as he pulled up to pick up passnegers from the bus-stop. His conductor today was an old friend, Karthik. Nice guy, they worked well as a team. He grinned to think of the stories they had shared, the frequent jostling of suspicious female passengers on crowded days, the cut they had taken from a pickpocket caught in the act, the random harassment of college boys too big for their boots, the desperate looks of people watching the bus leave just as they got to it. That was always funny, he thought, even after so many years. And Karthik would always time it well, blowing the whistle only when the man or woman thought they had made the bus in time to watch it belch its way to its next destination.
He strated up the engine and they were on their way. Just thirty minutes late. Not too bad. He could fudge the time on his sheet and take off 15 minutes from that. Market, station, church…the bus was full, the day was hot and Ramu was getting irritable. Three giggling girls had begged to leave their bags near his steering wheel so they could hang on for dear life to the rod near the door. They kept chatting while maintaining their balance on the curvy road. Lunch seemed to have been a long time ago and Ramu desperately wanted something better than the now-warm water that was within reach. The graveyard was coming in sight. Usually no people at that stop, but today there seemed to be a small crowd there. A group in mourning. On a whim Ramu decided he wouldn’t stop. The bus was full anyway. Nobody would blame him. He signaled to Karthik that he would keep going. He saw them too late. A grandfather and his grandchild toddling along, crossing the street. Not fast enough to avoid the sudden burst of speed Ramu had put on to avoid the busstop. Not fast enough to hear the shouted warnings. Not fast enough to step a few inches away to escape the hurtling bus. It was a blur, mangled limbs, a bleeding toddler lying by the roadside, the grandfather nowhere in sight. And then Ramu saw the arm, flung across the road as though in a desperate attempt to cross the road in time. And then he saw the leg. And he knew what had happened. Should he run or stop to help? What could he do anyway? It was an accident. And then he saw the faces.
They started to come together in groups…people from the busstop carrying the rage of a missed bus, people along the road left forever with the image of a ripped-off arm from an old man, people who had been in front of a bullying busdriver before, the boys he and Karthik had tormented, the women who had been jostled. A sea of faces…angry, waiting for revenge. And they were in front of his bus. His windshield shattered and a stone landed near his foot. Then he saw they had sticks and bigger stones. Maybe he could run to the back and take cover. He turned. The bus had emptied of women and children. Karthik was nowhere to be seen. A few men were left. They had seen the accident and they had chosen a side. In their hands were handles and window stoppers and loose rods from the seats. There was no place to go. The faces came closer. Ramu felt one stone hit his temple and a crushing blow to his stomach. He thought briefly, irrationally, of the school fees that would not be paid now, or ever, before they dragged him out of the bus. There would be two deaths that day.
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