Even though 650 words is far too little to sum up everything I've learnt in a lifetime, my college application essay seems like the best self-introduction I could give you.
She actually asked if I knew English, mortifying me with the insinuation.
As a child, releasing my mother's hand to board the school bus VNS16 was always traumatic. We rarely exchanged words awaiting the bus - yet it was our favorite time of day - we both cherished the silent companionship, merely standing together as the cars and minutes passed by. My tongue remained still, even as my mind raced. I would wonder where the man with puffed eyes in a yellow auto-rickshaw was going, why the young woman on a rose-red Vespa let her hair loose in the slipstream as she zoomed past us. At the bus stand, much like most places, I would speak to none unless necessary, and that too, reluctantly. But then most others too held their counsel there. Once, (interrupting my reverie), Priya Ma’am, my school teacher and the supposed epitome of perfection – approached my mother and asked: "does your son speak English?" My mother smiled and nudged me to say something. The suggestion underpinning the question left me speechless. I was relieved when my mother finally said: "Yes" (after an awkward pause). Thankfully, the bus arrived and I could swiftly and gracefully make my exit. A singular risk of remaining quiet is that silence, beyond being golden, invites speculation and judgment. You’re bored. You’re depressed. You’re reticent. You’re conceited. You’re dumb. Your narrative gets written by another, often enough, incorrectly.
From the frying pan into the inferno; every step I took towards my seat on Bus-VNS16 amplified my angst. If I could, I would apologize to the bus ceiling and windows for all the times I've stared at them remembering things best forgotten. In these moments I found solace in reading. On releasing my mother’s hand, I’d bury myself in a novel. Serendipitous moments in life often come from seeing the written word that mirrors a thought, a feeling, a perception that you’d thought special, exclusive to you, set down by another hand, a scribe you’ve never met, perhaps long dead. It’s as if that hand has gently taken yours. Who wouldn't find the words and observations of Ruskin Bond entertaining? Reading was much like an axiomatic conversation. R.K Narayan's Malgudi Days took me to an Indian village; Roald Dahl told me of the horrors of the world and Lemony Snicket taught me to live with them. No bus ride was too long when I was immersed in a book.
On Bus-VNS16 I found new interests: listening to obscure podcasts, writing poetry that no one would see for years and act my heart out. All the world’s a stage and bus VNS16 was no exception; the empty seats were my podium and my close-knit group of bus friends was my audience. This bus ride engagement slowly grew from quasi-satirical impressions of the bus driver to a more profound affinity that made my ‘adoring audience’ push me into joining an acting troupe. Like water for a parched throat, these conversations on the bus had almost become a need. These people who spoke of impressionism, Pakalu Papito and their favorite K-pop star in the same tone had almost become a necessity. There were times we fell to the ground, together or apart. But we always found our way back to our corner in bus VNS16, the space between us filled with love, hate, boredom and fun, lots of fun.
Over the years as I rode Bus-VNS16, my mind raced to different worlds and ideas – learned and experienced. All these little things settled in small corners of my mind and heart. Be it a book or a conversation, or the autumnal leaves visible from the window, I was indelibly shaped by these bus rides. Whether on a flight to Shanghai, taking an opportune walk in the park or seated on the bus staring out the window - home is a place deep within me.
