One the morning of interview-day, I was offered a Hobson’s choice by my Father: take Metro Bus rather than the only family-car. Brisk-walking towards the entrance of the metro station, I saw the bus approaching the stop. I switched to jogging as my mind, out of nowhere, said to me “your interview would be a disaster if you don’t catch this bus!”. The bus arrived a few seconds earlier than I did but its doors were still open. The driver had probably seen me running and waited until I was at the door only to close it on my face and drive away. Trying to pay no heed to what just happened, I waited impatiently for the next bus which arrived sooner than I had expected.

The journey started while I held on to a rusty pole in the narrow aisle of a jam packed bus. A tween started crying whose shriek pierced through my eardrums. Few seats ahead, two aged gentlemen argued to claim the seat reserved for senior citizens. The one who appeared relatively younger refused to give up seat by saying “Tery baap ki umar ka hoo, sharm kar!” (“I’m as old as your dad, have some shame!”). Amidst all this, a Bollywood song of 1990s started playing which turned out to be a ringtone of a cellphone whose owner picked up and started talking. Soon, the talking turned into shouting as the caller tried to resolve a family dispute over the phone call. A few moments later, the bus suddenly came to a halt and everyone collided with one another. Just then, the man in front of me turned back and said, “kaana hai?” (“Are you blind?”). Like a good and peace-loving citizen, I replied, “Sorry Bhaijaan'' as the “Bhaijaan'' was a choleric 6 ft. tall and muscular guy with a long and firm mustache. “Hato rasta dou” (“Get aside, give way!”), said another voice. Among all this commotion, I heard a faint yet soothing pre-recorded feminine voice calling out the name of the station I was supposed to get out.