London. Morning. Light. Rain.

 

London is a collage - patched and stitched with pallets of colours, shreds of cultures and bits of languages. And a typical London double decker bus is the mirror of it.

Following Taniya's transfer, I skipped driving to the office. This was mainly to save money from exorbitant parking fees and partly to save myself from city traffic. But if you always fancy for a closer-to-heart reason, then it is just because I get two hours to read - solid, without any distraction.

But sometimes you can’t help cheating with reason and listen to heart, you can’t help but listen, watch and feel all the people - the passengers - they embark the bus, search for their seats, and find ways to kill the journey time. Tell you what, it is something I always cherish for, just like the thousands of moments formed and dissipated while I used to travel in Delhi Metro, and how some of those moments were powerful enough to be fossilised!

The tiny bus stop of Beulah Spa reminds me of me. Mostly. It remains empty except a few puffa jackets or long coats, who always bend over glowing screens, or hooded Africans swaying with loud beats, or a couple of South Asians with faces bound with perma-seriousness. But let the school hours come, the bland stand fills with moments. A group of young blacks banter and gleam like blue crystals. A flock of mixed girls, mostly Latinas, check them with corner-eyes and still speak among themselves. A lone white girl rests against the glass wall and whispers over Bluetooth with someone she fancies with a smile, you can always tell a special one. A youngling, just out of toddlership, walks heavily with morning reluctance, while her Eastern European mother carefully guards her from oncoming traffic, and the eyes of the mother, if you can see, are not so fresh either. My colleagues gather one by one or by couple, and they greet with a half baked smile - sometimes simply a twitch on lips. I understand them. They always wait at their usual spots.

This part of London is filled with late seventies’ immigrants. The proximity of Croydon at one end and Dulwich at the other, grants this place a mixed vibe, a faded transition, which is perfectly visible in old Georgian houses, cleaner but narrower streets and over crowded residences.

My colleagues shift at the first sight of the bus. Some extend their hands signalling it to stop. The tiny red spot zooms into a mammoth and all form a line, usually in the same order, and take out their cards. Like all other menial professions, bus driving in London too is monopolised by immigrants - Polish, Romanian, Muslim, Black or Sikh, and when you greet them, most of them don't response, just stare, as it is natural, they have too much on their plates, and a greeting in early morning is so overrated. I carry on to the upper deck.

The momentary decisions people take in occupying bus seats are amazing. You can look into their eyes and norice a plethora of fast-running emotions and if you look closely and you're lucky, you can even peek at their innermost person, which they so much care to hide. I have a vantage point - right corner at farthest end row. I can see most of them while they turn around and their eyes search for the perfect spot - too many options are always confusing. I see a tall white girl to remove her earpods as if music is barring her thoughts before she occupies a window seat. I see a white man, coat in his hand, quickly survey the whole upper deck and nod his head, and then compromise with an aisle seat. I see a Japanese girl, perhaps a student, with a bright headphone, undecided what to do, and returns to the lower deck. I see a shiny black man with a padded coat occupying whichever is nearer to him and instantly swipes his screen. I see more colleagues, who embark from other stops, greeting silently and occupying whichever is left.

I remember Taniya. How she loved dozing off on her bus journey! The constant vibration, seepage of cool air through windows, church-ish quietness were her favourite lullabies. Oh, I miss her smell. I see others. Most are leaned towards their palms - scrolling, reading, typing, watching. But some are drowned in books, occasionally to raise heads to breathe maybe; some have voidness - brushed over their faces, like low tide Thames, eyes fixated though mind viciously running amock; some have musics on their ears, filtering their familiar world; and rarely very rarely a few, who always smile in silence and laugh in crowd, let out a smile or two on a happy thought, or maybe on a sad one, or maybe on nothing in particular, and when I spot them, my heart glows like Oishikaa's, when she tastes her favourite flavour of icecream.

This bus cuts through West Norwood - waking her up, Brixton - always cheerful and vibrant, Kennington - famous for Black Prince and Charlie Chaplin, and then stops at Waterloo, aptly named after famous battle. It gurgles out almost half. People rush out quickly, ready now to face the reality, the harshness and life. I pack my book and readjust on my seat. 

A major readjustment is what I am looking for. For months, nothing is in sync. Nothing is right anymore, although not everything is wrong. Carl Jung said, if a man knows more than others, he becomes lonely. I don't know more, but I just feel terrible. I miss the old me, I miss my wife and daughters, and I miss the old days. Sometimes I wonder I am actually encased in a mid-aged cage and my only prison-mate is an old soul.

The bus turns right, circumventing the globe of BFI, to Waterloo Bridge. I prepare for the best moment of the day. I look right. Vast skyline of an ancient city along the pre-historic Thames. By now, I’ve seen it a thousand times, though it never ceases to amaze me what humans can do. I believe this to be true. Extraordinary things happen and when they happen, you just know. 

In the last couple of years, I experienced countless stories on buses. Brutal accidents, big fights, indecent exposures and also soulful conversations, strangers’ smiles, sudden bonding. But what I like most is this. A quiet journey among chaos. Like a lonely planet among thousands of stars. I love crowds, and I hate to be a part of it.

Bus stops at Aldwych. I get down. We get down, and hustle towards the tiny black gate of a massive seven storey, weirdly named India House. It starts to drizzle. I look up. London. Morning. Light. Rain.

You know what? Today is not the day not to be happy. Let save it for another day.