Kinds of Bus Conductors

While bus conductors can generally be classified into two main types - The Caller-Outers and The Non-Caller Outers (based on propensity to call out names of bus stands as they arrive), I've decided to dig deeper.

1. You Really Think I Give A Stinking Shit?
   Generally reserved for the emptier buses, this kind of conductor, contrary to his job description, will sit in the very first seat of the bus and chat up with the driver about 'toh apla mulga gela aani tithe tyaala ti midale...' It's your job and your concern to walk up to him and ask for a ticket. If you lose your window seat in the process, stop bickering. You should have travelled ticketless.
   
   
2. Will Trade Preferential Treatment For Small Change
   My favourite kind of conductor, he can be bribed into offering you the first seat that frees up near him if:
   you buy Rs. 15 ticket, and
   no. of coins given > ten.
   
   Also, if
   no. of coins > price of ticket,
   another passenger may be evicted from seat, and indeed, bus, to seat you, most benevolent of souls.
   
   
3. Rope Banging Means Move Your Ass
   That rope they have hanging works two ways. One way makes that bell ring at the front of the bus (effectively disallowing anyone seated there from sleeping) and the other makes that rope smack into the roof of the bus (supposedly scaring people into moving forward down the gangway. Why? Can he hit us with it?). Requires the utmost finesse and wrist control not to ring bell also when doing this. This is generally one of the most seasoned conductors plying the most popular, crowded route in the city.
   
   
4. Lonely Hearts
   Plying the most underused of routes are the lonely hearts. They'll come sit next to you and tell you their life's sorrows and joys. Before you start considering listening to them out of pity, remember, they're worse than the Type 1 conductor, meaning not even the drivers are willing to listen to them...
   
   
5. Obsessive Compulsive
   This is the rarest kind of conductor. He'll sit on any available widow seat, furiously cleaning out that cool ticket holder thingie. And when he's really bored, he'll pull out a blank ticket and punch it full of holes.
   

Kinds of Bus Drivers

Okay, who am I kidding? There is only one kind. Ooh!! Wait. I got kinds!

One: The kind who'll kill you by running you over.

Two: The kind who'll kill you by crashing the bus into something with you inside.

Three: The kind who'll kill you of a heart attack on the way to 'Kind Two' above.

Demigods, Ho!

Ever have one of those moments when you do something highly uncharacteristic of you and borderline unacceptable, and suddenly realise, 'This is what movie anti-heroes must feel like...'?

My Barber Shop

Haircut --------------------------- Rs. 35

Shave ---------------------------- Rs. 15

Haircut with shave ---------------- Rs. 45

Hair wash and haircut ------------- Rs. 60

Head masage --------------------- Rs. 25

Haircut with head masage --------- Rs. 60

Ladies Bobcut -------------------- Rs. 75

What’s the extra for in the Ladies Bobcut? Self-restraint?

Love is...

... bare toes wiggling in the sand next to tractor-soled monster-boots.

FPS Excuses

Are you ready for a level-up?

SPLAT!

Right. Maybe we should stay on this level for a bit. This map really sucks, though.

Relief.

Eleven thirty-seven. He tugged at his collar. He could’ve sworn he saw the steam escaping. He cursed out loud. ‘It’s going to kill me,’ he said. He took the little cloth and wiped the sweat off his face.

Twelve fifteen. ‘This is not going to get any better,’ he thought. He walked around the house shakily, closing the windows and drawing the thick blinds in every room. ‘At least now there’ll be shade. God, I hope that means less heat.’

One thirty-three. He stood up. He couldn’t bear it. Not any more. It had only gotten worse. He practically ripped off his shirt. Wiped himself with it and tossed it aside. Collapsed onto the cool stone floor under the fan. Oh, relief!!!

Two forty-six. Now in just his shorts, still on the floor, still uncomfortable. The heat was unbearable now. Not even the floor was helping. He let out a low moan. Those curses coming thick and fast now. He was parched – mouth, throat, it was all dry. But he couldn’t get up for a glass of water. Too much effort. So he just lay there, breathing, his body slick with sweat. Glistening.

Four twenty-eight. Evening had brought with it none of its usual respite. Everything baked in the orange-ing sunlight. ‘So this is what it feels like to be the Kalahari,’ he thought. Even like this, humour didn’t leave him. Never would, he swore. Around about then, he started wishing she was there. On the bright side, it meant he repented the fight. But he just lay there, breathing, thinking of a better time.

Nine eleven. Darkness had brought with it silence. Nothing else. Clouds hung in the sky. Mocking. Calling. Of course, if his curtains weren’t drawn, he’d have known that. But he just lay there, breathing, alone, miserable.

Eleven four. ‘Whoever said night was cooler than day, fucking lied.’ The line kept repeating in his head. Of course, the weather outside told a very different tale. Because the heat was now trapped inside the house. Windows shut. Curtains drawn. One unmoving occupant. If only he’d had a drink of water… But he just lay there, breathing, cursing in his mind.

Two twenty-six. ‘The phone’s rung five times. I think. I’m not sure anymore. Must be her. Calling to make up. It’s around that time. She probably thought I was asleep or something. Wait, I can’t see the ceiling anymore. Three mails I had to send. That last Doors album. Had it finished downloading? Can’t remember. There she is. The beach. That not-so-hidden corner. That wall. Sun blaring down on us. The beggars when we were leaving. Oh, look! There’s the ceiling. Hmm… That’s odd, the cracks seem to spell out her name. I should tell her that.’ But he just lay there, breathing.

Two fifty-two. The first drop. Stayed on the ground for a fraction of a second before the earth soaked it in. They followed in the thousands. Falling together. Calling him out. Screaming to him. Singing his song. The earth broke out that fresh spring cologne it wore to their parties. They pattered against his window, beckoning. But he just lay there.

Three seventeen. Thunder boomed a salute in the distance. A note of finality in the air. Together with the wind and the rain, it played a sonata. One of his favourites. A heavy, crashing tattoo that usually made him want to dance with them. The drops journeyed to his window and cried. But he just lay there.

Football

Can someone, please, in very simple terms, explain to me the excitement caused by hearing some British dude go, "Yeah Shebby, I think in the next 90 minutes, we're going to see two goals."

Whose Goddamn idea was pre-match analysis anyway?

Why me, God???

WHY???????

I shook my head. Tried to focus. It was there. I could feel it. Swimming, swirling, just out of reach. Or perhaps I was still in it, so catching hold of it wasn't easy.

I shook my head. Closed my eyes. Scratched my head, rubbed my fingers across my forehead, all that. Suddenly, there was something. A word. Suddenly there's an explosion in my head. Images, sounds, faces, places, events. I see me sitting by a stream, someone next to me. I can hear the bees. I can feel the stream moving.

This is it. It's beautiful. And I've got it. I thought I'd lost it. But I found it.

Then came that yell again. And I lost it. Again. I close my eyes again. Focus, focus. Ignore the sound. Block it out. I can do this. It's right here. I can get it.

That yell, yet again. And it's gone. I can't find it.

Ma, I'm up, you can stop yelling!!!

Ambition

So, what are going to do with your life, son? When are you going to wake up and take responsibility for your actions?
I'm going to manufacture and sell shaving cream, Dad.
What???
I think I'll call it "Pestonji's".
Go back to sleep, son.

Twins

They sat across the small table. Staring. Disbelievingly.

They barely even remembered each other. One even reached out his hand to make sure it wasn't a trick. That this wasn't a mirror. Grinned. That grin set it off. Brought everything back in a swirl.

Grins changed to smiles spreading across their faces. In minutes, they were children again.

Best friends in school. They sat together. It had been years since they'd even seen each other. But today, just seeing her let it all out. Nothing else had worked. Today, they cried. Together. Again.

*wtf*

What is with random idiots? Have they nothing better to do than visit profiles of people they have never seen saying stuff like:

abhi deepesh mare gher aya tha to he visite ur profil than i come online and strike this web address...
and find u got it .....
or jyada vaw mat kha yar....
bhukh lagi hai to gher aaja khana khilata hun....

I mean, really, dude. Get a life.

Education

I've realised that education gets more generalised, not specialised, the further along you go. My brother's in engineering, I'm in business management. You'd think those two are pretty darn distinct. Nope. He studies the same production management crap I do. Heck, he even uses my textbooks.

The Book of Life has chosen to flip its pages for me. The Pages of Dawn tell me something will happen to me nine and four thousand days from today. They choose not to reveal any more.