Adieu
The roads of Delhi remain devoid of their presence. Instead, the orange, red and green monsters (going by the name of low floor DTC buses) have crowded the busy streets. All of us have forgotten them; and justifiably so. They were killers, they were erratic, they were rash, and they were careless…. The general consensus is clear – it’s a good riddance to bad rubbish! Yet, there are times when I sort of miss them.
984A…This was the route of the notorious Blueline buses that plied between Rohini Sector 5 and AIIMS in the days when Delhi Metro was still taking baby steps. It was like opening a door to new experiences when I first boarded the bus. Coloured yellow and blue, and bursting at the seams with commuters, the inside of the bus was nothing short of a stampede scenario. I was pleasantly surprised when a young man got up and offered me a seat, which I later came to know was reserved for ‘Ladies’. Anyways, the first thing, other than the impossible number of passengers that struck me was the FM radio. It was unheard of in those days, and fresh out of my home state, I was greeted with the humorous voice of Nikhil pulling people’s legs with hilarious acts on Radio Mirchi.
As the days rolled by and I became a ‘regular’, new experiences unfolded before me. The Blueline bus was a platform for small time vendors of the national capital. I always found one vendor or the other selling everything from road maps of Delhi to metallic lemon squeezing devices. I remember buying 20 pens for Rs 10 from one such vendor. There were book sellers, comb sellers and vendors selling talisman to keep “buri nazar” at bay.
It was in these buses that I started to pick up the local lingo. From unbelievable slangs to local vocabulary, I learnt everything. Modesty and a bit of shyness prevents me from sharing them here, but some slangs have to be heard to be believed!
Another category of people, though not very common, yet frequent enough to keep the female passengers on high alert, were the bottom pinchers. They were a crass lot, with some having unsuspecting looks while others had “lecherous” written all over their body language. I particularly remember one incident when one old man of about sixty tried to be too ‘close’ for my comfort. I was sitting on the aisle side and he was standing near me. Somehow, I found his proximity uncomfortable. I could feel his thighs pressing on my shoulders. Once or twice, he almost fell over me on the pretext of losing his balance when the driver braked. Then, he dared to put his dirty hands on my hand (I was holding the backrest of the seat in front of me). It was then that I lost my cool. I was wearing these pencil heels, and, I pulled up my right feet and stamped with all my strength on his toes. The impact was mightier than desired as he was wearing open-toed sandals. The conductor, who was by now a familiar face, guessed what might have transpired. The old lecher was thrown out of the bus at Punjabi Bagh after being slapped many times by a few overzealous co-passengers.
The journeys were eventful. The evening sojourn back home from hospital meant a good nap of an hour or so. During one such twilight siesta, after disembarking from the bus, I found my wallet missing. Deva, my husband , was also travelling that day with me. He said that he had seen three shady looking women standing near me while I was snoring away to glory. As ours was the last stoppage, we approached the conductor who was by now an acquaintance. The conductor told us that three women were confronted by a female passenger when they were trying to open the zip of her purse; all three were right now at the police station. We went there, and I saw my wallet, each rupee and debit card accounted for, lying on the SHO’s table. What a relief it was! Then and there I made a resolution to never sleep on a Blueline ever, but sadly, I could never keep that promise. The journey on those buses never failed to soothe my tiredness.
When we shifted homes, travelling in Route No 542 was again another experience. I travelled in those Blueline buses during the entire tenure of my second pregnancy. People were careful with me, some prophesying the sex of the baby I was carrying, while the others advising me to have bowls of ‘ghee’and butter so that I have a bonny baby. They were good natured people, caring and considerate. On the journey back home, the bus was crowded by the time it reached AIIMS. But till date, I remember the kind face of the driver who kept the seat behind the ‘pilot’s seat free, so that I could sit there in comfort. I continued to commute to my workplace till the penultimate day of my delivery in the Blueline bus, because I knew I was taken care of in the best possible way even during the final stages of my pregnancy.
There were road mishaps, there were killings, and though I never saw one happening while I was on board, the notoriety of these Blueline vehicles became monstrous with each passing day. I cannot say that all of them were at fault, but yes, maybe a few rotten apples spoiled the entire lot. And soon, the final nail was put on the coffin and the Blueline buses became just another name in the history of this city.
“Adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu, adieu, adieu,
I can no longer stay with you, stay with you.
I’ll hang my harp on a weeping willow-tree.
And may the world go well with thee.”
984A…This was the route of the notorious Blueline buses that plied between Rohini Sector 5 and AIIMS in the days when Delhi Metro was still taking baby steps. It was like opening a door to new experiences when I first boarded the bus. Coloured yellow and blue, and bursting at the seams with commuters, the inside of the bus was nothing short of a stampede scenario. I was pleasantly surprised when a young man got up and offered me a seat, which I later came to know was reserved for ‘Ladies’. Anyways, the first thing, other than the impossible number of passengers that struck me was the FM radio. It was unheard of in those days, and fresh out of my home state, I was greeted with the humorous voice of Nikhil pulling people’s legs with hilarious acts on Radio Mirchi.
As the days rolled by and I became a ‘regular’, new experiences unfolded before me. The Blueline bus was a platform for small time vendors of the national capital. I always found one vendor or the other selling everything from road maps of Delhi to metallic lemon squeezing devices. I remember buying 20 pens for Rs 10 from one such vendor. There were book sellers, comb sellers and vendors selling talisman to keep “buri nazar” at bay.
It was in these buses that I started to pick up the local lingo. From unbelievable slangs to local vocabulary, I learnt everything. Modesty and a bit of shyness prevents me from sharing them here, but some slangs have to be heard to be believed!
Another category of people, though not very common, yet frequent enough to keep the female passengers on high alert, were the bottom pinchers. They were a crass lot, with some having unsuspecting looks while others had “lecherous” written all over their body language. I particularly remember one incident when one old man of about sixty tried to be too ‘close’ for my comfort. I was sitting on the aisle side and he was standing near me. Somehow, I found his proximity uncomfortable. I could feel his thighs pressing on my shoulders. Once or twice, he almost fell over me on the pretext of losing his balance when the driver braked. Then, he dared to put his dirty hands on my hand (I was holding the backrest of the seat in front of me). It was then that I lost my cool. I was wearing these pencil heels, and, I pulled up my right feet and stamped with all my strength on his toes. The impact was mightier than desired as he was wearing open-toed sandals. The conductor, who was by now a familiar face, guessed what might have transpired. The old lecher was thrown out of the bus at Punjabi Bagh after being slapped many times by a few overzealous co-passengers.
The journeys were eventful. The evening sojourn back home from hospital meant a good nap of an hour or so. During one such twilight siesta, after disembarking from the bus, I found my wallet missing. Deva, my husband , was also travelling that day with me. He said that he had seen three shady looking women standing near me while I was snoring away to glory. As ours was the last stoppage, we approached the conductor who was by now an acquaintance. The conductor told us that three women were confronted by a female passenger when they were trying to open the zip of her purse; all three were right now at the police station. We went there, and I saw my wallet, each rupee and debit card accounted for, lying on the SHO’s table. What a relief it was! Then and there I made a resolution to never sleep on a Blueline ever, but sadly, I could never keep that promise. The journey on those buses never failed to soothe my tiredness.
When we shifted homes, travelling in Route No 542 was again another experience. I travelled in those Blueline buses during the entire tenure of my second pregnancy. People were careful with me, some prophesying the sex of the baby I was carrying, while the others advising me to have bowls of ‘ghee’and butter so that I have a bonny baby. They were good natured people, caring and considerate. On the journey back home, the bus was crowded by the time it reached AIIMS. But till date, I remember the kind face of the driver who kept the seat behind the ‘pilot’s seat free, so that I could sit there in comfort. I continued to commute to my workplace till the penultimate day of my delivery in the Blueline bus, because I knew I was taken care of in the best possible way even during the final stages of my pregnancy.
There were road mishaps, there were killings, and though I never saw one happening while I was on board, the notoriety of these Blueline vehicles became monstrous with each passing day. I cannot say that all of them were at fault, but yes, maybe a few rotten apples spoiled the entire lot. And soon, the final nail was put on the coffin and the Blueline buses became just another name in the history of this city.
“Adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu, adieu, adieu,
I can no longer stay with you, stay with you.
I’ll hang my harp on a weeping willow-tree.
And may the world go well with thee.”
Comments
Post a Comment