The air conditioner in the bus is not working. It is a long ride back home and it would be tough in the barmy weather. Good that there are few people around. The conductor has tried - first to convince that the air conditioner is working but just the air is not cool enough, and then by switching on small fans above certain seats. Eventually he opens the windows, which are jammed due to disuse.
Why have windows vanished from our lives? They are now only found in computers, proverbs and quaint restaurants. What are windows? Why are they not doors? For one thing, they are more romantic, have more character. Windows are yearning, and temptation. They can be that big gulf between what I have and not, what I am and not. In an apartment where I once lived, there was a large french window beside which I spend many a lazy afternoons and nights overlooking the sea. My son likes to sit on the edge of a much smaller window at home, to make sense of the world outside. Train rides are all about windows. In Shimla, my everlasting memory is that of sitting on the first floor of a cafe overlooking the Mall road. The cafe is tiny with breadth of few feets. But there is a large window which gives you a feeling of almost sitting on the Mall road itself, shaking hands with passers-by. The world moves but the time stands still sitting at that window. Windows have that thing - they warp the sense of motion and of your place in the scheme. Where are windows gone?
Back to the bus, the conductor has opened the windows - I do not like it much because it means noise and pollution. Thankfully, today it made things more tolerable. I am sitting there, reading my book, as the dusk descends. At one long intersection, the bus halts so close to the pavement that some branches and leaves peak inside the bus from my open window. The gesture is so sudden yet invigorating that I am instantly elated. It is like a good friend showing up unexpectedly for a chat. I feel ‘aha, what break from monotony’, and welcome the tree wholeheartedly. I stroke the leaves, pluck a small shoot and press it between the pages of the book I am reading. I know that the bus would take time to move and I want to savour the moment. The evening is looking more beautiful.
Suddenly, a monkey climbs up the tree and jumps inside the bus through the open window. It mauls me brutally before running down the aisle, and frightening everybody. Or so I imagine. I shudder and desperately want the bus to start moving now.
The leaves are still pressed in the book.
