The old man at the bus stop

The bus was yellow and light greenish-blue in colour. ‘Delhi Transport Corporation’ was written in blue letters on the yellow-coloured horizontal band that was painted across its length. It seemed to be a very old carriage. It tilted slightly to one side, and made a deafening noise as it moved threateningly on the road. It looked as if it would fall apart any moment. Some windows were missing from the windowpanes. Long stains of tobacco ran down the side of the bus. Small brown-coloured spots of mud were sprayed, onto the bus, near the tyres. The tyres were big and dirty. I looked at them spinning around rapidly, slowing down gradually, and finally coming to a halt in front of the bus stop. People erupted into a loud noise. Colourful loud noise. I wondered why they felt the need to talk so much. The ones who were unaccompanied turned to their phones. Everybody wanted to talk to someone. Well, almost everybody. The old man sitting next to me was silently gazing down at his feet, holding his walking-stick with both hands. He seemed to be lost in thought. My interest was aroused. I wondered what he might be thinking about. What could be his story, his take on things, his political opinions? What did he think about those people? What did the bus that stood in front of us mean to him? Was he there to be alone, or was he there to feel like a part of society? Or, like me, was he there just to observe the people and the city, and to walk around and watch the celebration of life?

People were jostling to get into, or out of, the bus. A tall, skinny guy wearing a black shirt was being pushed around as he tried to board the bus. He almost dropped his bag but, somehow, managed to hold on to his cell phone. He was shouting into it. A fat man right behind him had a tattered paperback in his hand. I wondered how he would read it inside the bus. The bus was packed with people. It looked as if it would burst open soon. I chuckled. I looked at the old man, almost expecting him to laugh too. He didn’t. He looked sad. He was an odd sight amid all the happiness and liveliness of the city. I didn’t watch the bus drive away—I was busy watching the curious old man. He had small eyes behind the big glasses he wore. Sparse white whiskers covered his heavily-wrinkled face. He had gnarled, fragile-looking hands with papery skin stretched over brittle bones. He smacked his dry lips often. His head was covered with white, wispy strands of hair. He needed a haircut. He raised his head to look at me—he must have realised that I was looking at him. I smiled at him. He smiled back at me. He was beautiful. This is the real celebration of life, the face of this man, I thought, my God for the day. I looked at the people around us—they were all so eager to reach somewhere, waiting impatiently. Nobody looked at that beautiful creature sitting silently, alone, at the bus stop. I looked at my watch. It was time to go home—I had to submit an assignment the next day. I got up from where I was sitting. I looked at him one last time. The beautiful sight filled me with happiness. As I walked back home, I realised that I was singing—people were staring at me. Wait till you see the old man at the bus stop, I thought.

I often ramble through the city’s streets, watching people and enjoying the liveliness of this charming place. This piece is on a man I saw a couple of days ago.