The Prelude to a Conversation: Part 1

Photo credit: FrogStarB / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

The wind these days has a mind of its own. The other day, it took the day off and let the heat have its way with Bombay. Consequently, pools of sweat stuck to all travelling in trains, waiting on platforms, and running towards stations as well. They glistened in their earnestness to be part of the clothes people wore and would not let go even when the clothes had had enough of them. 

In other words, everyone - me including - was stinking with sweat! And since I reside in Thane - which is on the fringes of the skirts of Bombay - the heat treats me the way it does Thane: like an evil Godforsaken stepmother.

If you happen to be struck by a mood to visit the station Thane lets trains stop at, you'll notice the place is as haphazard as haphazard can be. A domineering flyover looms its way over the main entrance and opens its mouth wide enough to form the Thane station bus stop just alongside the roofs of the station. 

Photo credit: Beechwood Photography / Foter / CC BY-NC-SA

 The bus stop is three lanes wide and has bus stations plopped at just the right places for the associated buses to pose and take in passengers. Passengers of course have to pose through various stages of frustration before a bus arrives. But that I think people in Thane have allowed themselves to overlook. Just as they overlook the concrete fence that hemms in the bus stop. It's made of concrete all right, but it isn't tall enough to hold a bus in its arms should it want to go bungee jumping. Not that the buses show any tendency to do that but well, it helps to prepare for any eventuality. The Thane Municipal Transport though seems prepared to believe its buses incapable of such mischief. It does believe though that its buses can come and go as and when they want to. A timetable tries to bring some semblance of order to the goings-on, but the buses - rather the bus drivers don't seem to care. 

Photo credit: mallix / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

The buses themselves seem disinterested in nurturing any career. 

Some of them seem on the verge of collapse. Some have got themselves a face job but amble about as if the plastic surgery wasn't to their liking. As for the rest, they seem quite happy to frown all the while. The grumble that issues forth from their engines is not quite a melody you want to hear and the fumes that come for free insist you taste them through your nostrils. 

Below this mammoth awkward Thane bus station thrives a chaos of a rickshaw party. Rickshaw drivers in all shapes and sizes approach you as if they are selling porn. They'll arch their head back, narrow their eyes, place their hands on their hips, and give you the come-here-mate-I-have-porn-you-want look. It does seem unsettling but if you are curious enough to ask them about their wares, you'll realize they merely want to cajole you into a shared rickshaw for a fixed fare.

Photo credit: Meanest Indian / Foter / CC BY

Of course, there's the official rickshaw stand too. People queue up, stand with a whole lot of dignity, and hail a rickshaw that does happen to go by the meter. And since this is so readily available as you step out of the station, the climbing up to the bus stop is forever shelved for tomorrow - much like the exercise routines of many a rotund man in Thane and Bombay. 

Thane is very eager to prove it is not a hesitant patch sewn onto Bombay's apron. It likes to consider itself as one who was part of the original design. And it does all it can to mesmerize people into believing that. 

Aunt Geraldine, on the other hand, makes it a point to remind the apron that this patch wasn't part of the grand design. She spent her days - her heydays according to her - in Dadar. And then married herself off into Sandhurst Road and then, after a series of adventures and misadventures, landed in Thane. 

I had just walked in after one of my alternate days at work in Flora Fountain. I was tired and sprinkled with fatigue. And since it was nearing eight in the night, I wasn't in any mood to behave like a domesticated man and have tea and conversation. Instead, I headed straight to my room.  I put down my bag, considered my relationship with my bed and was about to consummate it when Aunt Geraldine strolled in with a cup of tea...

To be continued...

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. However, you are encouraged to find coincidental resemblances to actual events wherever you can.