On the Bus

One’s foreignness in India has the advantage sometimes of instantaneously bridging divides. Take my experience during a bus trip the other day, traveling between Valancherry and Tirur—a journey of about 45 minutes.

I had taken a window seat at the Valancherry bus stand several minutes before the bus left and moments before the entire carriage filled with passengers. Following known Western protocol on public transportation, I promptly buried my face in a magazine, shutting out the other riders. I caught a few curious glances over my shoulder from the man sitting next to me, a middle-aged Muslim with a knitted skullcap who was methodically running a string of prayer beads through his fingers.

Other passengers, I noticed, gave me smiles and short nods whenever I looked up from my reading. I nodded back as politely as possible.

Midway through the journey, the bus stopped at a rather nondescript intersection to let a few women off and allow a few more on the bus. As we waited, I looked up once again and peered out my window, which was open and letting in a refreshing breeze that broke up the staleness of the bus interior.

Across the road, a family of young girls and small children trudged along the curb, picking up trash. The girls—who had the bearings of overworked mothers—looked to be no more than 18. The small kids I took to be their children numbered five—two boys and three girls, one of whom was a toddler tightly grasping the hand of one of the mothers. The other mother carried a wailing baby who had on no clothes save a ragged, stained T-shirt. One of the boys, with an ineffable grin, lit a scrap of paper afire with a match. He showed off the burning paper to the girls and one of the mothers noticed. I thought the boy would get in the rear, but the mother grinned and made the other mother take notice. She also chuckled and continued walking with the crying baby on her hip.

I noticed all this, of course, in a mater of seconds. As the family passed by the bus, the boy who was burning paper (which was now a flimsy charred mess of wilted black ash in his hands) noticed me on the bus. He stopped dead in his tracks. He tapped one of the young girls and pointed at me, smiling slightly as he did so. The girl stopped to, struck motionless with an odd mix of what looked like wonderment and anxiety.

The boy raised his hand slightly, working up courage to interact with me. The other kids had by now all noticed and were stopped, huddled around each other, whispering to each other and glancing tentatively my way.

His nerve steeled, apparently, the boy began shouting: “What your name? What your name? What your name?” The phrase had a clipped, strident cadence. The mothers noticed and stopped, looked up and saw me, registering my presences with the same bewildered faces.

The bus driver thrust the vehicle into gear and it began to roll forward, in the opposite direction of where the family was walking. The boy continued to shout: “What your name? What your name?”

I leaned my head out the window as the bus picked up speed. “KYLE! KY-LE!” I yelled into the wind. I am sure the boy did not pick it up clearly, yet he smiled all the same. I saw him playfully push his sister, wanting her to recognize a great accomplishment. And the family continued walking up the road.

I leaned back into the bus and was about to begin reading my magazine again, when I noticed the other passengers around me. They were all staring me and grinning gleefully. The Muslim man next to me, in particular, wore an especially benevolent smile—his prayer beads momentarily suspended in his hand. I do not think anyone on that bus spoke much English. At least, they did not use the opportunity to ask me any questions in English. They simply smiled knowingly.

From there, I put the magazine back in my bag and enjoyed their silent company for the remainder of the journey.