The Ride Home

          A thrillingly confusing mixture of greek and arabic symbols whirl about my head as I run walk quickly to the waiting bus. I nonchalantly flash my card (the smoothness of it all still amazes me...Smooth is hardly a word that could define me) and head towards my seat, burying the numbers and letters in my head as I prep my mind for the best part of my day - the quiet ride home.

From: here

             In a widely spaced suburb, with its low extending buildings and occasional malls, cars are ubiquitous, and public transport is only a government formality. Everyone who’s anyone drives, and that leaves all those unwilling (or unable) to drive in the nobody category. When I clamber onto the bus everyday in the morning, I’m met by the silent ghostly stares of people whom I somehow never seem to spot in the outside world.
            Some peer out of their windows with troubled expressions, deep in thought; others stare straight ahead, an unsettling emptiness in their weary eyes. These people..they’ve seen, heard, and known so much - and not in the conventional sense of the word- I can see it in those expressions. It makes me feel extremely inexperienced in my just-learnt-so-much-in-a-controlled-environment face.
           The lady with her meagre snow-white hair in a bun sends shivers down my spine when she tries to smile at me; the mellow greetings of the smart-looking old man with his beaten-up briefcase echo with tiredness; the quiet young woman who stares out into the darkness shakes her head to herself occasionally - she seems stuck between conflicting emotions every time I see her.

Public Transport isn’t for everyone - especially in the suburbs. It seems like a special place for those who can’t afford to whiz through life with their fast cars and loud stereos. It’s a place to slow down, and think; a place to revel in the quietness and the silentness of all those others who seem to have settled comfortably into the shadowy nobody status.