Aaron's Watch

Route 112

July 20, 2010 at 7:36 pm (Uncategorized)

Damn it! Couldn’t the timing be any worse! Must it happen this month? On top of all the additional medical expenses for which I had to dole out, now this. True to the old adage, ‘it never simply rain, it bloody pours!’ Surely he could have seen that a pedestrian crossing was approaching? Are you not duty bound to let people cross over at such a demarcation? What a moron – in addition to the painstaking formality of registering statements at the police (which is certain to take all morning), what’s worse, I will have to do without my wheels for a better part of a week; tinkering, painting, oh yes, a week at least. I guess I’m back to my ‘bus’ days, at least for a while. But then, How bad could that really be?………

Sounds blast from all directions as the bus slowly but yet steadily makes it way down the congested road, tilting to one side as it carries twice the size of its intended capacity. The shirt I’m wearing clings fused to my body owing to the sweltering Colombo humidity compounded by the pressure-cooker environment associated with peak-time public transportation. Oblivious to the already ultra-jammed existence, the conductor keeps persisting with a commanding ‘issarahate yanne, issarahate yanne’ (go forward x 2) to those standing in the isle, whilst sticking his head out at brief intervals to throw out an open invitation to the masses now gathered at the halt. I number amongst the many who gaze at him in disgust with colourful pleasantries on the verge of slipping off my lips. Though the heat of the moment passes, I still find myself transfixed on this hitherto insignificant individual, pondering on what life’s journey has led this man to. What awaits him at the end of each day? Or perhaps the more appropriate question would be ‘what would he turn into?’… a ‘booze up’ on the cheapest alcohol with fellow conductors & drivers, gulping down a majority of the days earnings? At the end of which he will stumble home to a helpless wife – a mother desperately trying to keep her family afloat. She silently endures night after night of horrific abuse, rising before sun up to seek any work that came her way. Some days she would find work at the market place helping out the local grocer. But lately she found this hard coming by as the economy took a downward spiral deeming her surplus to the need. Often desperation set in. At times, even to the unimaginable extent of selling herself to keep the home fires burning. How cruel it would seem to label her with such despicable a title when all she did was display the fullest extent of a mothers love to fill three tender stomachs.

My trend of thought is broken by an object that halts at my foot having travelled along the floor from the nearest seat. It turns out to be a potato which has seemingly escaped from the basket belonging to the elderly woman on the aisle seat. Though clad in bright garb, her troubled line-riddled face tells a thousand poignant stories. The basket at her feet had definitely seen better days. It now sports a gaping puncture midway to the right of the handle (where the potato got away from, no doubt).  This small provision of vegetables would barely suffice for a week in the most stringent of lower middle-class households, but she would have to somehow make do with this for the month – It was all she could possibly afford. Money was so hard to come by. The only funds that trickled in each month was the pension that now comes to her after her eldest gave his life for the cause in the north. Her daughter got married three years ago, & off she went. The recent floods had ravaged their little hut robbing them of their basic necessities, condemning them to dependence on a charitable hand – the very thing she prayed would never befall her. Now rest with her the seemingly insurmountable task of seeing her youngest through, till he gets on his own two feet to make tomorrow a better place for both of them. Despair seems to be spread through the seat, as the young man with a pile of files & books on his lap looks equally disoriented. Are you familiar with the feeling of having been denied entry to a lecture, or an exam because your course fee had not been paid? This was the second time it had happened in as many months. How do you go back, & face everyone else? ‘If you cannot afford the fees, you shouldn’t be here’ is what the principal had greeted him with at the exam registry. Frustration consumes him. Why even bother spending those countless hours on mind-boggling theories. All for nothing, except the sharp pain of insult & embarrassment that spread to the very core of the soul. The books that dispense knowledge & insight into the intricacies of management would now remain a figment in his memory never to be recognized. First, the electricity, now – this! A divided family bares many scars, most of which are kept secreted from the prying eyes of the outside world. Financial constraints, of differing proportions, are a common stigma. But sooner or later the cracks appear & with time all, if not most is exposed. How he had begged his father to pay his fees when he saw him last month when he came to collect the last of what was left of his belongings from the house. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll pay it..’ he had said rather disgruntled as he walked out the door.

At last, a vacancy presents itself as a passenger in the last seat attempts to disembark. I make my way amidst the discontented murmurs of the passengers lining the aisle, often having to hurdle over many a bag & parcel along the way. I let out a sigh of relief as I settle into the opening in the back row. I look outside the window to my left seeking any familiarity in the surroundings that would tell me how far my journey has progressed. I realize I’m not the only one staring out – only my eyes were dry, hers were not. Perhaps you would have noticed the distinctly unique expression of sorrow that could result only from a broken heart. Such a wound spills so much of you, & takes many a day, many a night to heal. She wore the face of a million dreams shattered. Her transfixed gaze tells me the reel of unending memories plays on in her mind act after act piercing deeper & deeper with every passing minute. The whole time, she didn’t even notice me watching her. Suddenly I wondered where she was bound. Would she miss her stop? I guess in context, it didn’t really seem to matter…..

The next morning, I’m at the halt again in eager anticipation for my ride to arrive.  After a brief wait, a shuttle displaying the number of my route pulls up, upon which I duly proceed to board. A few minutes later, fortunate favours me & I find seating towards the front end of the coach. I suddenly remember my last journey & spin my head around in optimistic search, but to no avail. The bleak old ‘archchi’ (grandma), the dispirited student, the broken lass, none of them were there – not even the scraggy callous conductor. But yet, the same aura of dejection, hurt, deprivation, & hopelessness is found in the many faces that have taken their place…