Micro Misery
The other day, I got into a row with my brother when he complained about having to ride a splendor. A lame reason to fight, you might say, but those with their own vehicles will never understand the torture of having to travel in a public transportation. Make a half an hour journey in a stuffy micro to know.
It starts right from home. You might be a jobless student, but having to ask for a twenty from your mom every time you leave the house is still embarrassing. It only gets worse when you have to put up with the usual question, “What did you do to your weekly allowance?” Surely, your mother doesn’t know that you spent it on Pringles or the Nestlé bar you happen to be addicted to.
The fifteen minutes’ walk from home to the main road is the most annoying part. Having to walk under the twelve o’ clock June sun, burning your already sun-burnt face to coal black, only to have all sorts of things pop out on your face by the time you return home. That is when you curse bike owners the most.
You finally reach the stop and wait for your ride. One, two, three micros move right past you, your wave clearly ignored. When the eighth passes by, your head is on the verge of exploding. Then you see it stop some twenty metres away. You run after it and get in just in time the traffic cop blows the whistle. Phew. You try to find a place to keep your (already hurting) feet, only to get stabbed in the toe with a pencil heel. “Watch your foot, will you?” you growl, but the lady is too busy talking on her cell phone-amidst some thirty five people glued together in a 6X3 sq ft space- to hear.
Just then, you feel an arm around your waist, making its way into your pocket. You let go of the seat you’re holding to-for a fraction of a second-to slap the arm off, just when the driver pushes the brakes and the micro jerks forward and you end up on top of a middle aged stinky man who flashes you a perverted grin.
You hurriedly get to your feet. The hundred thousand laughing glances heat you up, not to mention it is a few degrees to boiling point inside. Your back is already aching, having had stooped all this time and you know you are going to break it if you remain in the same position for five more minutes. Lord couldn’t have heard you better- the micro comes to a halt. Another traffic jam.
The conductor comes to collect money. You’re sandwiched between a fat lady (who clears her throat every few minutes in the most disgusting manner and spits her phlegm out of the window, threatening to spit it on your clothes), and Ms. Pencil Heel (who is, by the way, still on the phone), so it’s practically impossible for you to get your hand into your pocket to get your money. You manage to, with much difficulty. But instead of your wallet, it is your cell phone that you pull out, which drops down.
Talk about bike stunts and underwater sports. I dare you to try to find a lost cell phone inside a crowded micro-in the midst of a thirty five sweaty people- with barely a place to move your head, let alone take a step.
You slowly bend down, careful not to push any one. You see your cell phone beside a huge size-10 boot. A little further and you’re almost there. You stretch your arm when the micro starts, making the fat lady lose her balance and fall right on your back. You’d have been ready to suffer the ninety kilos, had the size-10 boot not squashed your palm at the same time.
At least you got your cell phone.
The rest of the journey is as annoying, but you’ve become too worn out to notice. You don’t even care to push a pervert away when he deliberately holds on to your arm when the micro runs over a bump. You quietly hand over your money to the conductor, who doesn’t return the change despite you having shown him your ID card, but you let it be. All you want is to get off the godforsaken micro.
When your stop finally comes, you are more than happy to push your way through the crowd. You step on Ms. Pencil Heel’s foot on purpose, and give the stinky man a little punch, and poke the fat lady with your elbow as you get off. You make eye contact with the conductor but he still pretends to have forgotten about the change. Never mind. You check your pockets and get down
Words: Sadichchha Pokharel
Comments
i love it!
keep writing hun!
so true.specially the conductor not returning your changes despite the concession you're supposed to get.
things u hav written r so very real...i too hav to manage with all these...addition to dat the unnecessary horns blown get me on my nerves...
I like your writing style and subject selection. Keep on writing.
thanks, everyone :)
nice one..i loved the last para.."give the stinky man a little punch, and poke the fat lady with your elbow as you get off. You make eye contact with the conductor but he still pretends to have forgotten about the change."..indeed its the thing that every local has to suffer every day... all d best for further writings..;))
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