The other day, I got into a bus and unfortunately the only vacant seat was one next to a saree clad lady who seemed to be in her 40s. Not that I have a problem sharing a seat with any woman, but never in my life would I choose to sit next to a woman, especially one who is a stranger to me. Now this lady I sat with, shifted closer to the window as soon as I tried to place myself on the seat of a bus which was already very shaky. I found the gesture sweet and accommodating, for I was happy that she was adjusting for me.
The moment I sat down, she stared at me. â€œWhat? Was there a bit of theÂ rotiÂ I had still on my face?â€ Pulling out my spotless white kerchief I quickly wiped my face. Whew, now I was so clean my mom would be proud of herÂ beta.
Curse the driver, he hit the brakes so suddenly I couldnâ€™t get a grip over myself and my shoulder grazed my co-passengerâ€™s shoulder. I bet Maa Kali couldnâ€™t look as furious as this female, oops this lady, they say calling someone â€˜femaleâ€™ is an insult these days. â€œOh god, I think she thinks Iâ€™m one of those perverted touchy feely kind of guys you meet on the bus. Someone tell them I am as innocent as a newborn child, well that might be an exaggeration, but still, I was no rapist!!â€
There was just another 30 minutes journey left till my destination and out of fear of further humiliation I started humming tunes to myself and looked the other way enjoying the sceneries, the concrete buildings and smoggy air was a beautiful sight, if you know what I mean. I was praying fervently to all my Gods to keep me safe for the remainder of the journey.
About ten minutes later the bus stopped to let a few more passengers in. Then this big heavy guy came and stood next to my seat. The instant the bus driver hit the brakes, this guy partially leaning on poor little me. Unable to bear his weight, I was jostled a tiny inch towards this lady I was sharing my seat with.
I do not remember what happened next in the bus, nor do I remember how I happened to be thrown out of the bus. The last sentence that I heard was, â€œguys like you are the reason why the girl from Delhi died so miserablyâ€.
This post was originally written for 1HundredWorks: a wonderful blog run by two friends who love to write and who want to spread the love of writing.Â
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Writing to me is therapy, it frightens and comforts at the same time. Liberates like nothing else. A book in my own name is a dream, but a bigger dream would be to write something that haunts the reader even after the last page is turned and the book is shut. I enjoy reading and music, spending time with family whilst battling my social awkwardness.
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