The Unsung Poetry of the London Bus
I remember the hop-on, hop-off tourist buses from when I first arrived in London. I hopped off that idea rather quickly. Perhaps I never quite saw myself as a tourist. All I wanted was the quiet riding on obscure buses, the ones that snaked through hidden lanes, taking me through unknown places with strange, lyrical names and beautiful, unassuming homes as I reluctantly reached the place where I thanked a nice driver and got out.
Drivers and conductors in Mumbai buses, during the monsoon, are a different duet altogether. Passengers board, soaked to the bone, dry off in the humid sanctuary of the bus, knowing they'd be drenched again the moment they stepped off. The conductors were masters of their domain: exact change at the ready, a booming voice for unruly passengers, ensuring the driver, steadfast at the wheel, could navigate the chaos outside, untouched by the storm within.
A nice bus ride is a symphony of time and space. You aren’t in a hurry and you haven’t waited too long. You get a good seat with an unobstructed view. A kind, non-chatty, neighbour who understands the unspoken pact of a long journey sits next to you and doesn’t leave before you. It's a route that offers more leaf than brick. And crucially, it's a day cool enough outside that the simple act of being on the bus feels right.
These bus rides are portals into parallel realities- we get to peek into fleeting towns, intimate streets, and unscripted lives which we wouldn’t have imagined when we were waiting at the stop.