WHEN I took the public bus at PIB colony of route 8-A — a ramshackle relic of the iron age every part of which rocked and rattled — I had no inkling of the eye-opening experience it would be.
Not that I was unnerved by the sudden jerky bumps or shaken by the jumpy jolts of the emergency breaks that, instead of averting accidents or obeying the red signal, deliberately jostle the standing passengers. None of these exercises bothered me because I was securely seated adjacent to the “gate” (entrance/exit door) where the conductor stood, perhaps duty-bound to do so. The distance I was to travel and my safe seat gave me an ample chance to watch him closely.
A shrill whistle like that of a railway guard or an irritated traffic policeman put the bus in motion. For a while, the conductor jogged alongside the bus, then hopped on the footboard, yelling, “Jamshed Road, Numaish, Saddar, Saddar...” He repeated these names incessantly, making sure that “Saddar” was always mentioned three times, to remind would-be boarders that the journey passed through the hub of Karachi. The bus moved at a snail’s pace, stopping time and again to pick up prospective passengers whom the conductor avidly beckoned to board. While the vehicle ambled majestically, the conductor remained at the gate, repeating umpteen times the stops it would be passing through. His voice was loud, his pronunciation clear, his punctuation perfect; yet he never forgot to tap the “gate” or the body of the bus, sometimes hard, sometimes gently, at times once then twice and when he spotted a chaser bus, then more than three or four times in rapid succession. It was like a signalling system — stop, go, run.
After we passed the announced stops, he trumpeted two or three more yet-to-reach transit destinations. Seated near the entrance, I eagerly watched all his moments — his deafening pronouncements, his sudden random raps, his slow and fast trots, his hops on and off the bus — all necessary gymnastics for a livelihood in the scorching humid heat that made him perspire profusely. Big and small beads of shiny sweat decked his forehead, dampened his nose, cheeks, nape then flowed down his chest and soaked his shirt. Though oft and on he drained his forehead and wiped his face with his shirt front and sleeve, yet he was drenched from head to heel and emitted a peculiar smell.
Before the next major stop where he expected many to alight, he spread his cupped palm in front of each commuter, asked their destinations, received the fare, pocketed it if full or returned the change and proceeded ahead, squeezing his body between overlapping rows of standing passengers. If someone disputed the fare, he pointed to the RTA Certified Chart tied to the partition separating the gents and ladies compartments. At times, an illiterate, stubborn, unruly traveller would fly at his throat, hurling humiliating abuses which he would pocket, quite unlike others of his breed who would pick a quarrel, create an unpleasant scene or stop the bus quite indifferent to the urgency of the passengers.
Having collected the fare, he would immediately return to the gate and start the routine calls all over again. At a somewhat important junction such as Saddar, he availed the chance to jump off and run to the juice vendor on the footpath, fill two glasses of cold water (the other for the driver) and also buy two glasses of cane juice. The passengers not patient enough would rap on the window panes noisily, shouting “Chalo, bhai.” Refreshed, he hurriedly buys a few paan, a piece of which he places between his cheek and canine teeth, and begins his calls: “Frere Road, Power House, City Station, Tower, Keamari,” then rap, rap, rap.
Fast, slow, dead slow and fast again, the distance shortened and my destination neared. At the last stop, after slowly steering the vehicle, it was parked behind others of the same route. Relieved, all hastily disembarked. I remained seated and keenly eyed the man whose shouts and acrobatics I had so far watched. He and the driver also alighted, stood erect on the muddy side way, stretched their hands wide like the wings of a bird and then, with their arms akimbo, twisted their torso right and left and also bowed low as if to loosen their stiffened back muscles. Then, they walked towards the water drum in the nearby tavern, rinsed their limbs and face, dried themselves, ordered tea and samosas and sat at a table.
Rather than imagine what they conversed, I went up to them shook hands and took a chair nearby. “The work that you do is very difficult,” I said in Urdu.
“Also thankless,” replied the conductor in perfect English.
“You seem educated,” I said in surprise.
“Yes, I am a Commerce graduate with knowledge of MS Fox Pro, MS Word, Me Excel, Windows 95, but without backing or enough money to bribe for a job. This is better than lying in bed or suicide. With all the abuses, insults, quarrels, even fist fights, it has fed me and my family of the past four years. Can you get me a better job, sir?” he asked, looking at me with a beseeching, helpless stare!
WHEN I took the public bus at PIB colony of route 8-A — a ramshackle relic of the iron age every part of which rocked and rattled — I had no inkling of the eye-opening experience it would be.
