After college, it is burdensome to walk 15 minutes to catch a bus. In the morning, not quiet as much- maybe it’s the morning air and a good feeling of getting some exercise. In the afternoon though, under the sun, on an empty stomach, being one of the 12 other standing passengers on Nepal Yatayat, it is burdensome.
But as it reaches New Plaza, or surely by the time it gets to Naag-Pokhari, the bus is lighter, the smell of people has thinned, and a sweaty seat is where you are sat on. I like Putalisadak. It almost feels like a small Nepali New York. I catch subtle resemblances. Fast walking people, loud talking over phones. The streets are filled with students of all levels of education. College undergrads from Islington, +2 students of Trinity and Uniglobe, school students walking relaxed after giving their terminals. An old group of people standing with a grimace of Nepali restlessness to their faces. So old. Surya red and Pilot smokers parenting the smoke around them, with eyes searching nothing. Shop owners looking out, sometimes if I catch their eyes and hold the contact long enough, i can interpret nothing but boredom lurking behind them, hidden away with tea cups and guff gaf. Where do you find beauty in this place? Where?
It is a strange feeling, of sudden likeness to a place everybody’s flown away from. The daylight air has a certain hue and smell, neither lovable or likeable, the people are sweaty, the bus seats are sweaty, but you hardly let it bother you so much. You just learn to accept the untidiness, and find beauty, or a reason. Maybe thats something humans can do, they can settle, they can survive, they outgrow, or ignore. We learn how to. We hardly care if the Prime Minister's wife is dead.
There are 3 long traffic halts, others self imposed by the drivers waiting for passengers. I read pages of history on these seats. I listen to great psychologists speak, I listen to hip hop and Francoise Hardy. I watch women breastfeeding their youngins outside of Teaching Hospital waiting for buses. The pollution is never not there, even a rainy day sees to it a bastard smell, sometimes i feel this is what Chabahil street prostitution feels like.
I already know, this bus will see me grow into a big woman.
