Mute Commute: Part 2

(To refresh your memory, this is my account of my journey to and from office - I love saying that word - everyday for 2 months this summer, in Bangalore)

And so I jump off the local bus, glad to be rid of all those stares, ready to embrace new ones. What is it with Indians and staring? I love staring back. Staring right into their eyes and then walking slowly towards them. But no, today will be a happy day, I've decided, so I will not start off on a sour note.

Kundahalli Gate bus stop is writhing like an anaconda around me. The air wants to leave this place - the noise and driving scare it away. There is no air left, only fumes and dust and busses. Busses of all shapes and sizes. It's nice to see who gets on which busses and how.

The shoe-less, scruffy haired villagers, heaving gunny bags full of vegetables climb aboard a bus named Super Deluxe A/C Volvo DVD Stereo Sleeper Deluxe Manju. The cleaner - a unique role in India, for he is the conductor, announcer and peace keeper - hangs off the side of the bus, tries to catch your eye unleashes his opera. He sings of far off bus stops and fair maidens. His song is enticing, his eyes beckon. A few weary men are charmed by his tale and reluctantly climb aboard - they've got places to be, I guess.

Off to my left, a drunk, slumped next to the corrugated iron door of the local bar, throws up over himself. People like this deserve to sleep with the dogs. The dog gets up and leaves.

The ladies and school kids and more civil folk take a local BMTC bus, like the one I've just gotten off. Ladies and school kids climb tenderly through the forward opening, the men grab whatever they can and swing themselves up onto the rear entrance platform, cramming the previous guy in, making space for the next. The system works, God knows how.

There is a French girl at this bus stop, whom I notice now. She is too pretty to be from anywhere else and too correctly dressed. What on earth is she doing here? Maybe she's Canad - oho, no time now, the Waalwo Buss-u is here.

I love seeing the red ticker tape destination lights of the Volvo bus as is slaloms its way past the sick, weak and newborns in the herd. It moves with the grace of a ballet dancer and accelerates like a swimmer. Each gear, a stroke; each stroke, a length ahead of everyone else. We proudly hail it. We, of course, being the ones in clean shirts and formal shoes and iPods and ties. Well not me, specifically, I am merely the commentator. I wear jeans and smile at the audacity of my words. Who am I to judge anyone? Whatever. My bus is here.

The conductor knows me now. He knows my thick, extravagant Panasonic headphones and lack of Kannada. There is no need for words between us - he knows where I'm going, I know what he's thinking. I pay the fare and lower the volume of my music, because I'm out of the outside, I'm inside where all is quiet and orderly.

Relief. My place is vacant. I get on quite early in the route. I know all those who get on after me and wonder where those get on before, live. There is a story for everyone, a story in my head that satisfies the way they look and talk and move and live. My seat is at the back, where the A/C is weak enough to be comfortable and there is more leg room. This is territory to be claimed and defended.

And so we hurtle along, insulated against the outside. Plasma screens display things no one pays attention to - I think they're there just to show you what you're paying for and who you are in society. I've seen entire families who take Volvo bus rides just for that luxurious feeling. The joy on the child's face as Tom and Jerry (yes, you read right) flashes across the flat screen TVs, the look of anxiety on the mother's face as she hopes her saaree is respected and of course the pride that radiates from the father. Today he will ride the Volvo Bus and he will enjoy the A/C and the driver's rear view camera-fed LCD screen and all the rest that comes with this shining beacon of status....its such a curious sight.

Out the window, I see a cleaning lady wearing one of those hilariously over-sized city-council jackets, cleaning the road side. She is cleansing the pavement of dust. But is she really? No. She is simply moving the dust from its current location to a pile on the corner, that will be blown away, probably back into its original place, by the time she gets back with the next pile. How do you remove dust? You can pack it tightly together and put it in a bucket but wherever you drop it, it will still be dust. It won't go away. And if you leave it unattended for long enough and there will be rain and the dust will become mud, worse yet. How do you expect normal people to fight such a foe?

All India does is move dust. There is no solution, only elaborate delay.

Suit and Tie.

Suit and tie and jacket and scarf. Shoes and pride and anxiety and awe.

I wore all of them the day I went to Canary Wharf in London, to interview at Morgan Stanley. I did the application. 3 of my friends got turned away at the first stage, but not me for some reason. I was invited to take some aptitude tests and attend a Q&A session at a placement that is rumoured to pay £35,000 a year. I was in dream land.

Maybe I was a somebody.

Cabot Square glistened like glacial treasure in the London twilight. This was a different personality of London. Not the low rise, crafted buildings you see in central London, with wrought-iron balconies you can only dream of. This was what Manhattan and Prague's child would look like. Those beige coloured architectural bimbos that London is famous for are still there, but they're draped in New York and Hong Kong's Autumn/Winter Collection. Stock ticker tapes dance across skirts of glass and metal, letting you know in no uncertain term what work goes on behind the grand revolving doors.

So, to 25 Cabot Square. I am taken up stairs, to a conference room full of other youngsters like myself. All dressed in suits, all eyeing everyone else up. Half are brown. What an interesting mix of people. I have no time to analyse though: I am a bit late. People were in exam mode; eyes glazed over with focus.

You could cut the competition in the air with a knife.

After the first test - some ridiculous test of 'accuracy' through matching numbers and letters - I glance across at the window. What a window. It was like one of those helicopter shots in action movies, to introduce Singapore or Tokyo or some futuristic metropolis. Goldman Sachs and Barclays stare back in their evening gowns and make-up. The artificial lights don't let the ladies down. At ground level, many a banker scrambles down the catwalk and into a train.

I return to exam mode. Beautiful hatred of the people all around me is pumped head to toe by my excited heart. It is hatred as short-lasting as my chance at Morgan Stanley.

2 weeks later a polite email tells me I am in fact a nobody.

The Grass is just as Green on This Side.

Life is good.

People don't stop, take a deep breath and appreciate how good life can get. They only sink into their sofa and day dream of life getting better when things aren't going their way....we don't sink into the sofa and just smile. Because life is good. It's very very good. Not perfect, but I don't think life is meant to be perfect.

This summer was the greatest summer ever. It has rolled seamlessly on to being a wonderful year of university. Much, much better than last year. It will then merge into a delicious Xmas holiday in Bangalore and Goa, and then snowball into more happiness.

Life is good, so sip some chai, watch the rain and smile.

That House.

At the bar at the Taj West End, the Indians stand shoulder to shoulder with the foreigners. Every one can afford the cocktails. Tall thin girls are courted by tall thin guys - perfect features, perfectly dressed. The Old Monk is my guide in this alien land scape.

I am here because some part of me wants to compete with them. The other part of me knows I can, but questions the purpose of this wanton wallet weighing. It's such an enticing scam. The bar man somehow keeps a straight face as he spits out drink prices. 500 Rupees for a large Old Monk and coke. I don't know who these elderly priests are but they must be their pulpits sniggering away at the 2000% mark up. 500 Rupees for a disgraceful little Budweiser. A 330ml bottle of fizzy American mediocrity. 750 Rupees for a Mojito for girl who's attention must be bought. Some part of me probably wants it.

The dilemma is to spend or not to spend? To spend and achieve what? To not spend at what cost?

I didn't come alone though. I'm here with friends and acquaintances. After a while the urban royalty, whose company I share, decide we've been there long enough. This is the 3rd watering hole I've been swept along to, tonight. The Alpha males bring their Camry's and Civic's and 5 Series' round the front and whisk us off to a house where this most exclusive evening shall continue.

I'll never forget that house. That flat. Floors of marble, suede sofas and the works of Mr Bang and Mr Olufsen proudly displayed next to each power socket. Towering speakers rise from the floor like stalagmites of crystal sound. The terrace overlooks a city asleep. We disturb the slumber of the silent, purple night sky with fake laughter, electronic music and the sound of Whiskey hitting the rocks. There's enough Whiskey to sink a ship, in the black marble top bar. There's a MacBook Pro on the ledge, observing us (with some curiosity, I imagine).

I don't want to drink, just watch these people. I am angry at myself when I catch myself thinking "this is how the other half live". Where did that come from? Banish it.

Maybe talking to someone will bring me some comfort.

"Hey man, nice music. Do you like psytrance too?"

"GMS played at my house"

OK then.

He didn't mean it in an arrogant way- his face was honest and friendly. I just found his though process interesting.

I seek refuge with the smokers. They talk about normal things. As long as you can bear the smoke, they are always good for a chat. We talk of football, university and Goa. I pretend to know something about motorbikes. They pretend not to judge me when I say I like jazz music.

If I wanted it to, this could be me. I could ask for more money than I need and spend it on things that I don't. Yes, I could lay a claim to this life. "But what would it achieve?", I argue back, as I begin the slow auto ride home. I can see the lights of the penthouse fading, obscured by trees and my foggy contact lenses. This was an education.

Trying to compete is futile. This house, these people, this evening.....this is not me.

Mute Commute Part 1: Walk to the bus stop

I love my bubble: the pristine, serene, detached world of the gated complex. As I leave, at 8am, it is still very quiet, but for the drivers greeting their 'saars' as they open the car doors for them, and the children skipping along to the bus stop. There is a large gate that separates the 2 car households and fragrant lawns from India. From the outside, passing manual labourers and maids can catch a momentary glimpse of the villa-lives being led inside, through the gaps on either sides of the figurative port-cullis. The gossiping aunties, a white family, the antique Volkswagen sports car and of course, fellow labourers and maids all make for a wonderful study - the gated complex is complex. Ahh, the suburbs.

India hits you the second you step out of this neat and tidy world. On either side of Regent Place are open drains, choc-a-bloc with garbage and hopeful street dogs. Across the newly laid road are a plethora of modest, 2-3 storied buildings that have bakeries, garages or hardware stores on the ground floor and a few tiny rooms above. Muddy tracks run through these buildings - after the rains they glow red-brown. The Regent Place gate is tall enough to keep out jealous looks from the upper stories. At this time of morning, only the bakery is open.

Everything about the morning is so refreshing. Children eagerly await school buses on the road-side, freshly bathed. Their playful chatter breaks the silence that otherwise drapes this place. Some children are going to middle-class CBSE schools, some aren't wearing shoes and wait for appa on his TVS moped to take them to the local school - all of them poke fun at the street dogs who really don't want to get out of bed just yet. They are not like the children of Regent Place, who stand half asleep at the bus stop, waiting for the air conditioned Volvo bus. I smile and wonder, as I pass 3 tots praying in front of shrine that watches over this stretch of suburbia. They are praying hard - their eyes are closed as they frown, muttering words, earnestly, silently, under their breathe. The temple boy smiles at their mother, who returns it, as he gives them each the morining tikka on their foreheads. This is innoncence like you've never seen it. The obonoxious music from the temple nearby now reaches my ears.

I cross the estuary of a mud track now. I walk at a gentle pace, savouring the tranquil morning air - the sun will soon spoil it. On the corner, sit men. Men of all shapes and sizes, quietly going about their business. There are thin old men who smoke beedis and sit cross legged on the ledge, watching the world go by. There are fat middle aged men who chat loudly as they adjust their dhothis. There are young office workers who give the coconut-water vendor his day's first business. There are college guys my age, who run past me, towards the stop as they see a bus approaching; their slippers slap the road loudly as they run. All shapes and sizes sit below the small trees that occasionally line the road. All size me up as I pass. The morning air is cool and dry. The morning itself is rather uncharismatic - no sun, just cloud cover and gentle breeze.

The last thing I cross before I reach Thubarahalli bus stop is the ironing wala. His day has started. His business is run out of a wooden box the size of car stood on its front-lights. His iron is primitive, his brow drips with sweat. On the floor, sits his wife, folding clothes and staring affectionately at her daughter who finds entertainment this morning in an empty coconut husk.

And finally, after a near silent 5 minutes, I reach my stop. As with everywhere I go in India, I am stared at for a few seconds and then judged. Across the road from the bus stop is a large, unfinished gated complex. Skeletons of white marble villas rise intimidatingly out of the dusty ground. The gate and walls have already been erected, yet the work site is now still and silent. It has all the makings of your gated complex, yet the bubble is only half done. I wonder what has happened. It's like one of those deserted warehouses that kids explore in ghost movies or final fights take place in, in action flicks. There are 2 rows of dazzling white bungalows but not a worker to be seen. What has caused work to stop? It sits on prime land and will surely be a success when finished. But why is the job half done? India in a nut-shell.

The bus trudges towards the stop. I get on, pop a few coins into the impatient conductors hand and grab a railing. 20 stares cut into my thick skin.

So begins my mute commute.

Mute Commute: Introduction

This summer I've been working. Interning, actually. At your standard, run-of-the-mill office. Therefore, each and every morning and evening I hop, alone, into a bus or an auto and join fellow office goers on a Mute Commute.

MC Stammer

Ya. I have a stammer.

Some of you know, some of you haven't noticed. It's not a particularly bad stammer, but its there. It rears its ugly head every hour or so. My mum thinks she hates it more than me, but I hate it more than anyone.

So she got me to see this hypno-therapist whom she knows, to try and get to the root of it in the hopes that we find a way to get it out of my system. I was skeptical, like I always am before I try anything that I don't consider cold hard science (though my mum and her will obviously say it is cold hard science. What is cold hard science? Western medicine? I don't know. I had grouped hypnosis in the same field as nonsense like Astrology and Star Signs and all that. Anyways, these brackets have gone on for long enough, bye).

I was pleasantly surprised as Ahalya Shetty (my hypno therapist) was more like a counsellor than a magician. She was someone I could talk things out with - an adult, I could talk things out with. I think the talking was more therapeutic than anything. We spent a few sessions discussing stuff that stressed me and memories that irked me and the most memorable times I'd stammered and all of that.

Anyways, you're impatiently asking in your head, "screw all this, what was it like to be hypnotised???". Well, it's quite cool. It came as a shock to a doubting Thomas like myself but hey, I guess it worked. Basically, I was having trouble remembering certain memories and Ahalya told me to lay down on the recliner, close my eyes and breathe deeply. So I did. I must confess, after about 3 deep inhalations I began day dreaming. I don't remember too much about the incident other than her saying, "Shravan, when I snap my finger, you will go into a deep sleep". And how!

As soon as she clicked her fingers, something was different. My eyes were fused shut. I could open them, but I didn't want to. The patterns being made on the black nothingness of the inside of my eye lids were too captivating. I couldn't take my eyes of them! You know when you close your eyes and really stare at the abyss, you see these wispy colours floating around, like tadpoles in a psychedelic pond? These tadpoles were operating disco lights. It was very, very cool. Ahalya's words then gently entered my consciousness, telling me what to remember. And I remembered! I was surprised as how well I could recollect memories that were locked away in a dusty covered chest in my mind's attic. One could draw parallels to Dumbledore's Pensieve, in the Harry Potter books. I won't go into details as to the exact nature of the memories - else He Who Must Not Be Named may get ahold of them. The process was called an 'Age Regression' which sounds ominous, but don't worry, I'm not an 8 year old version of myself. Suffice to say, that session was a break through. We were able to pin point and discuss one or two crucial points in my life that could have induced/affected my stammering.

So anyways, that session ended. We'd discussed techniques to get myself to relax and remember that there is no need to stammer. "Great, this is going to work", I thought. I got into an auto and headed for MG Road Bus Stand. It was crowded and busy. Rush hour on Friday evening.

A Volvo bus pulled up to the stand, I had only a thousand ruppee note - the fare would be just 30. What to do? I ask the conductor of the bus if he has change for a thousand, as he hangs out the open door. He looks at me, irritated and curious. He didn't hear me the first time. I ask again. I am speaking Hindi of course - maybe his hindi isn't too good. Again, he gestures that he didn't hear me. Now his face sports a grimace. The bus has spent about 10 seconds at the stop, I am the only thing holding it up. I freeze up. My mind is a maelstrom of words - my mouth just the opposite. I'm a statue. No, a caricature. The conductor has lost his patience with me and barks, "where do you want to go?" The driver now looks at me, too. People on the stand are looking at me, people in the bus are looking at me, wondering what's causing this delay. The pressure is on, Shravan. I can see the word I want to say in the distance and I can see that I'm not going to be able to say it. The pressure is well and truly on. What are you waiting for, Shravan? Just say it. It's so easy. Kundalahalli Gate - two words, six syllables. Just say it. But it doesn't come. I can see the words in my head. They are painted out in my mind's eye. I can see the words, I can smell them, I can taste them. But I cannot speak them. My mouth will not say 'k'. It refuses. Time is ticking away. I stall. I don't stammer much in the conventional 's-s-s-sense'. Rather, I stall. I stall with 'uhhh's and 'ermmm's and 'aaaah's, until the cogs in my mind have clicked into place and I can say the word. It's pathetic. Alternatives begin popping up in my brain. I say "Marathalli Bridge" instead. The alternatives to the word always come out fine. The driver nods. I have lied - to him and to myself. The conductor laughs and mumbles something about me not knowing where I'm going.

I hand him the thousand ruppee note. He looks at it in disgust. Now that I've got the maha-stammer out of my system, I can speak clearly in Hindi. I tell him that I'd told him right from the get-go, that I had no change. He says he has none. I tell him to stop at the next stop and I hop off, in search for someone's who'll break my 1000. Sigh.

A fat lot of use that was then. Hypno therapy? Counselling? For what? I can't talk to a fucking bus driver.

You know what? I'm happy with my stammer. I know people born with massive hairy moles on their face or with a weak heart or with a deformed limb. I've got it alright, I reckon. I mean, it's not that bad. Everyone needs something to balance themselves out. I'm MC s-s-s-Stammer and, well, you can't touch this.