Many families from rural background squatted on the floor, chewing betel, spewing jets of saliva all over. Discarding orange peels and groundnut shells liberally. An old woman, mop and broom in hand, ceaselessly scoured the faded mosaic in a losing battle. Civic sense and civility are passé here. A swarthy complexioned buxom struts on her clicking hi heels, sporting flaming scarlet lipstick, and a column of matching red glass bangles. A load of tumbling jasmine bedecks her oiled hair, a cheap rexine plastic handbag hung from her forearm. The omnipresent sex worker. Ready to provide release for a fee. The mangy mongrels ran around wagging their scrawny tails and crowded round anyone they suspect has mandible movement. Mouth mobility, without articulations, these street savvy curs know, could be mastication. And eating, invariably ends in discards and crumbs.

Touts black-marketing bus tickets stand in nether corners, bargaining their scalp. The city bust stand is a uniquely Indian subculture. A microcosm of caste, customs and costumes.

Fresh Drinking water, the board reads, and a rusty tap, trickles out brackish water. The three other adjacent taps have no supply. A traveler is busy brushing his teeth, uttering ear splitting guttural sound as he goes about his ablutions, oblivious to his surroundings. A peculiar native habit, among many here, is stuffing two fingers of their right hand deep into their throat, and produce the most terrible sound man can produce from the depths of their alimentary system. How, or why this method of cleansing (?) the oral cavity is so all-pervasive is beyond my rationale. I spot the bus-stop’s resident palmist sit amidst his paraphernalia.

Huge posters of palms, with some squiggly signs, speak of his expertise in foretelling. A knot of anxious people squat on their haunches hanging on to his every word. A young nubile has her hand outstretched for him to read, her anxious mother wriggles her own hands in torment, at the forbidding scenario being sketched for her daughter. A few crumpled notes leave their perch from within the confines of the grandmothers bosom, and pass on to the grimy hands of the astrologer. He pats the young girl’s head paternally. All will be well, he pronounces.

Gaudy film posters plastered the walls. Huge multicolor nubile and top heavy starlets stare down at the proletariat condescendingly. I pause to study the still. Exuding oomph from every pore, her blouse bursting its seams, her cleavage exploding, the sexy siren beckons. A few bored men, stand upfront drinking in the world of make believe. The buxom pick-up with a head of jasmine, moves in for the kill. A hushed pow wow, and a deal is struck. A few stifled giggles from a few on the bench with me. For the slut, her tonight’s meal ticket, for the frustrated traveler, his ticket to nirvana: for a few quick minutes, he will live out his fantasy, for in his arms he imagines he possesses the dream siren in the film poster.

I walk down the platform to the end point of the stand. A small four walled structure, with a narrow inlet. Reeking ammoniac smell, the omnipresent public toilet, better known as urinal in India. On the greasy front wall, is a large hand-painted portrait. Within an orange oval outline, a turbaned macho man with a twirled moustache. This toilet is for males, the message means. On the opposite end of the length of the platform, is another similar structure, but this has the painted picture of a coy and demure female, a strip of pallu draped over her head ; this is for woman only.

The gender symbols are the only guides to the thronging thousands who flock the station every day. For a country steeped in illiteracy, symbols and signs are the only recognizable and understood sources of information.

I sat down, on my plastic chair, and noticed the rivets again. Each leg was securely fastened and welded to the floor. To prevent theft.

I shook my head, and took in a deep breath. Nothing amiss here, my conscience talks. To a nation that elects its leaders through symbols, as the electors cannot read their names on the slate of candidates, and in a country which is known for leaders elected through this process of ‘democracy through heiroglyphics’, marketing and maneuvering for possession of chairs of office: riveting them appears a rational option.

My bus splutters into its slot, I scramble in and occupy a tattered seat. In minutes it is brimming over, with half the population of India squatting in the aisle. A harassed mother props her two year old kid on my lap; ‘Enda maga, e anna mele koothko’ (here son, sit on your brother’s) Involuntarily I circled my forearm round the childs frame. Malnourishment had made its ribs stick out like arches of steel. Thje mother, is already suckling her newborn, as she nonchalantly ferrets out a wad of betel leaves and stuff them between her stained teeth. A threadbare yellow thread encircles her neck and a single two rupee stud rides her nose.

This is India. We are poor, we are pathetic, we are sick. Yet our buses move, our lives go in. And to the impoverished village woman who board the public conveyances spending half their days earning on one single journey to some remote place of worship, I am a son too. I am the elder brother of her youngest son.

To many of my colleagues who have often asked me why I didn’t leave this country for distant lands of honey and milk. I just shake my head. You will not understand.

I am of this soil, and my roots are embedded in it. I will stay on, in this land of mine, for I am amid my brothers and sisters. If my jean clad lap can prop the back of one little baby, on his onward journey, the journey would be worth the discomfort. For the infant Indian, and for me.