Car-Free Day

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Car-Free Day

The hullabaloo of the Car-free Day was being generously aired on national news channels and social platforms alike. It had the gusto of a festival, quite similar to that on the launch day of the cleanliness drive, Swachhta Abhiyan Divas. The childlike enthusiast inside me joined the clarion call for a clean environment that was suddenly part of the collective consciousness. Brimming with enthusiasm, I decided to do my bit on Car-Free Day and decided to cycle to work, something that wouldn't have occurred to me had it not been for the repeatedly flashing news strips about Car-Free Day on various news channels. After all, it had been scores of years since I was driving to my workplace. Though the tyre of my enthusiasm went flat as soon as eyes fell on my Hero Razorback, the bicycle I'd bought two years ago with much zeal to push back my beer belly. The fancy bike, obviously barely used, was filled with filth of the gusts of dust storms.

I pondered for a moment on getting the bicycle revamped but all my zest fizzed out at the thought of dragging it to the roadside bicycle mechanic about a couple of kilometres away. My wife sniggered when I returned from the storeroom empty handed, with some cobwebs entangled on my beard and my clothes. I regretted having boasted in front of her about my ideas of riding the bicycle to work for a week. It was too late for me to take a cab now; she would kill me with her taunts. I decided I had to take the bus to work instead. How hard could it be? Thousands did it everyday, after all!

I had a quick shower and gulped down my sandwiches with a large glass of fresh juice. I had no other option than to leave for work on foot and catch a bus from the bus stop, less than a kilometre away from my home. While leaving home, my Toyota Etios seemed to be ogling at me the way my wife would look at me if I go out with my friends instead after planning to take her out on a weekend. It seemed asking me, "Are you serious?"

With little clue of what was about to follow, I walked to the bus stop, office bag in clasp. The humidity was intolerable and a boy begging for alms with some deity's image of iron soaked in mustard oil kept irritating me. I noticed that fruit sellers had started hawking to the people walking to and fro on the other side of the road. A cobbler sitting on the pavement just beside the bus stop was worshipping a greased, half-torn poster of Saint Kabir with an incense stick oozing out fragrance similar to that of the rajnigandha flower. The bus appeared after a wait of fifteen minutes. I got a seat easily as there were not many on board. The bus conductor walked about the bus, punching and issuing tickets. I did not have change so I extended a thousand rupee note. The conductor kept muttering as to why people could not give change. I was sweaty and the breeze coming in from the opened window was soothing. The bus stopped at several points along the way, each stop brining in great waves of people. Soon, the space that I had thought was mine began diminishing and my body was being pressed against by people of all kinds. At one point, my foot crumbled under the feet of an overweight woman. Despite my sound of 'oh', she did not show any signs of apology and kept mumbling something. When my toes complained of another major attack from the lady's sandals, I got up and offered her my seat. She jumped over and I was devoid of my seat. I had chosen for myself a more difficult situation. As the bus crossed St. Peters Church, it was so crowded that I could not stretch any limb. I was sandwiched between the people around me. A schoolboy had his face stuck to my perspiring armpit. I was standing there embarrassed but to my surprise, he stood unmoved. Either his nostrils were blocked or he had become accustomed to this kind of journey.

A middle-aged man was pressed against my side so closely that I was sure I would be left with either a broken laptop screen or a cracked rib. A young woman was pushed back until she leaned on me, much to her annoyance. Even so, she gave me a dubious look when her rear touched my crotch. Thankfully, before it could have taken a dirty turn, the bus halted at the Industrial Area and most people got off the bus.

My stop was still about three kilometres away. I started preparing myself for alighting. I tucked in my shirt, which did not look as if it was ironed less than an hour ago. My hand touched the rear pocket of my trousers and lo... my wallet was missing. I raised an alarm and shrieked to the conductor, "Oh my... I have lost my wallet! Did someone see my wallet?" Conductor smirked, "Sahib, if you flaunt your purse impregnated with big notes in buses, what do you expect? People who regularly ply on buses are too smart. The police station is at walking distance from the next stop." Thankfully, my credit card holder was in the laptop satchel but still the loss was a little less than ten thousand rupees and along with the money, the wallet also contained my driving licence and a couple of identity cards. I regretted the moment I had decided to board a bus to work. The bus was almost empty at the stop. As I proceeded to get off the bus, I found my wallet lying in the corner. The money was of course missing. But the thief was generous enough to spare me the headache of getting a duplicate driving licence and other identity cards made. The conductor admired the honesty of the thief for returning the moneyless wallet and I got off the bus while cursing all the news channels that showed the inconsequential utility of the car-free day and walked towards the police station while missing the luxury of my car.

This story was originally published in Spark the Magazine of July 2016