Every day I am convinced that we will be murdered
By my bus driver who believes so strongly in ‘all or nothing’
That he speeds by each truck, car and cycle rickshaw that we see
Living in some warped reality of video games
Where such driving would earn him 20 points
Rather than 20 dead bodies.
So as we bump, jerk, and flail our way home
(Or to the death, whichever comes first)
We decide to make the most of it.
So start the discussions on
Good tests, and bad marks,
What happened in class, who’s dating who,
Who said what and who got busted.
We talk subjects, complain,
Bitch, pass sarcastic comments, make bad jokes
Until all of us can barely speak,
Until my laugh bounces off the ceiling of the bus, loud, piercing,
And some faces contort while others expand,
Some stiffen in their seats, and others rock back and forth,
All emitting versions of “haha”s and “hoohoo”s,
Sounds of pure happiness (what a beautiful concept),
The teachers whip their heads, trying to place the source of noise.
We are a scattered bunch from different streams
And different grades, and different interests,
Only bonded by the fact that our homes
May be considered relatively close by,
Or maybe conveniently close by,
Enough for us to all belong to the same bus,
And so we say bye the same way we laugh,
Loudly, strangely, until each of our friends leave,
And we reach home with a belly-aching contentment that can’t be replicated.
Style credits: Harnidh Kaur (based on her style of writing)