The Bus Conductor

"Rashbehari! Kalighat! Minto Park! Sealdah!!" "The bus is empty, get on quickly", he bellowed.

A swarm of people hurriedly got into the bus and, mightily relieved to find empty seats, rushed to them before they filled up. The bus resumed its journey. It was office hours, it would be full to the rafters soon.

Then conductor continued shouting out the bus route as it moved towards its next stop. He got paid through a commission out of the revenue he collected through tickets everyday, so it was in his interests to get as many people on board as possible. He hated it. There was never a peaceful moment in the morning rush, people would jump in or out every two minutes and the bus stops were too closely spaced for him to be able to switch off for even a moment. Strangely, only when the bus was stuck in a traffic snarl would there be a respite.

The bus was overflowing now, and tempers within were rising. The passengers were all jampacked together and the heat wasn't helping matters. They constantly shouted at him exasperatedly asking him why was the bus stopped for so long. He turned his sweaty face away and ignored them; if they expected him to magically lift the bus high and glide it over the traffic across the road, they were sadly mistaken.

It was a typical day.

...

It was early evening and the sky finally crackled enough to force the heavens to open and let loose. Like all Kolkatans, he loved the rain, even though it meant a dip in business. The rain brought back memory of younger days when life was simple and more carefree. This one was fast becoming a storm, and a welcome relief.

The rain was pouring now and the wet wind rushing past his face was as refreshing as an oasis in the desert. Still, work was work, and he grudgingly ducked into the bus to sell the tickets. The worst place to be in the rain in this city is inside a bus. As soon as the rain comes down, the window shutters go up and the bus becomes a sweaty, claustrophobic little box. He braced himself for the inevitable barrage of complaints about the leaking roof. He shrugged and told them this bus is just six months old, it was the company's fault they bought a faulty one, he cannot do anything about it. It always amazed him how everyone always thinks the conductor is the tyrant overlord of the bus and the reason for all its problems. But then again, he thought, who else can they blame.

He finished his round and went back to his post by the door. For a job whose description includes traveling across the city, a conductor's life can be become lonely. He's shackled to a moving prison cell trudging back and forth the same route route over and over and none of the other inmates ever stay long enough to strike a friendship with.

...

He usually enjoyed the last shift of the day. It would be late in the night when even this crazy city would slow down. The weather would be more bearable and the passengers would be more tolerable, as the few who travel that late are too tired to indulge in their favourite pastime of conductor bashing.

He was doing a routine round of ticketing when he suddenly heard a voice in front of him utter a gasp of surprise followed by his name. He looked up, and the hand he was handing the ticket over to belonged to someone he had not seen for years, but had never forgotten. She was clearly pleased at the sudden meeting and eagerly asked him how he was, and why had he become a bus conductor. What answer could he give her? That a string of misfortunes had cost his family his entire wealth and ultimately his father his life, and as a result none of his dreams and plans which he used to narrate to her could ever be realised? No, that would be making excuses and he never made them. So he just smiled weakly at her and changed the subject by inquiring about herself. She probably got the hint and talked about her life, it was a happy one and she had much to tell him.

They were soon chatting about their school days and reminiscing those events which had seemed so important and those which had seemed irrelevant but were ultimately so much more influential in shaping their lives . Suddenly, the bus screeched to a halt and they realised with a start that her destination had come. She hurriedly wrote down her phone number on her ticket and pushed into into his hand, extracting a promise to call her. Then she gave him a quick hug and jumped off.

The bus started moving again as he looked back at her retreating form. There was a time when he had liked, more than liked her. He probably still did. Still, those days were long gone and he was happy than she was doing well. She would have never been this happy with him. He looked at the ticket in his hand for a few moments, then crumpled it and let it fall out of the bus.

He looked ahead as the bus sped past the closed shops under the dim streetlights. Then he looked up and saw that the stars were out. It was a beautiful night.

Where There is a Will...

The last fiery rays were clinging to the sky, sending bright red streaks across the horizon in a vain attempt to hang on. The waves crashed against the shore with escalating ferocity as the tide increased by the minute. Each time the beach broke a wave another smashed into it. Slowly the water began creeping upward, inch by inch.

He sat on a rock, legs dangling, and watched all of this. His life had been miserable for a long time, today it had reached its climax. His boss had called him and handed him the pink slip, saying that the orders from above were to 'downsize' the company branch and they had unfortunately named him among the people to be fired. He said nothing and impassively walked away. He knew that no one else had been fired and that he had been chucked out so that the boss's son could join the company. He went straight to the shore, probably entertaining thoughts of drowning and ending his existence there and then.

Now he watched the ocean slowly winning its battle of ground supremacy. A crab scuttled away to higher ground to avoid the sea but was caught in a wave and got pulled back. It waited until the wave had receded and then made a dash for dry land, This time it succeeded, the waves only managing to wash away its trail.

A seagull suddenly dropped out of the sky and dived sharply into the sea, hunting for fishes. it came up a few seconds later, its beak empty. Undeterred, it started circling the area, its eyes focused downwards. In its third attempt, the seagull succeeded and the man watched the fish wriggling in its beak, slowly getting gulped down the seagull's throat.

The next time the seagull dived down, it came up with another fish, but this time the fish twisted and turned with all its might, finally managing to break its hold and flopped back into the sea.

He saw all this and noticed that Nature never gave up. The waves, the land, the crab, the seagull, the fish - all ceaselessly trying to achieve what they set out to do. Even if they did not succeed, they knew that if they kept fighting they would get another opportunity, and that was enough. He decided that he would also keep trying. He never liked his job anyway, so it was no big loss. He now had the chance to start all over again and was not going to let go of the chance. He silently thanked Nature, just as Nature had silently taught him a valuable lesson, and walked off with a spring in his step.

The sun finally set, but it set with dignity and a flaming farewell, as if it knew it was going to rise again at dawn and rule over the sky yet again.




This is an exact reproduction of a piece which was written sometime in Class XII. It started out as a random description writing exercise to pass time in a free period (hence the first paragraph) and developed into a proper prose piece. I didn't think too much of it right then, it was just another random piece of fiction I had come up with, and with a moral to boot. However, I found myself coming back to it in the next few weeks, mostly just reading it. I realised that I had written it subconsciously at some level to help me get through a really tough period. I had rarely showed such optimism in any of my stories, especially the ones I had written around the time. And it did give me the strength to go through a pretty hard time. It's not one of my best fiction pieces, the style is more juvenile than what I usually wrote, but it is very important to me and acted as a tremendous support. It also happens to be one of the very few times a written piece of mine got published (school magazine), so in that sense I'm pretty proud of it. I have reproduced it in a blogpost to remind me to always keep my chin up, and also as a promise to myself that I will get back to prose writing in the vacations, something which is long overdue.