Vacous Terror

There is something uncanny, almost unnnerving when it comes to the matter of insensitivity amongst the dwellers of this city. I had in my earlier post, chronicled Bhangel and case of 'The half-roasted dog'. Well, this incident takes place not far from the 'bunker'.

The place is called Barola, and it's a second cousin to Bhangel.

It's a grey day. The clouds are running, diffusing into each other; newer and darker ones are born. The Sun burns limpid behind the foreground of this intercourse. The fields on the either side of the NH24 are littered with the refuse that the suburbs excrete. Bloated cows, guts afloat with swallowed polypags, stare neutrally at the roar of the traffic. A dog-eared mule, his legs tied together stands restless near the dump-cows, his phallus enlarged. He brays in competition with the fearsome freight trucks. Shards of a windshield are sprinkled on the highway, reflecting the rolling cumulus.

The buses that ply are morose. Unwilling hosts to an army of parasites in rags. Chipped paint, rusted bodies, and a general anaemic disposition. Uniform tri-colours adorn the drivers' doors; "I love my INDIA". The dashboard is wreathed in plastic daffodils. they've never seen the real ones. A tiny Ganesha sits content on the colourful gearbox.

I am sitting in the seventh row, the window seat. Right side. It smells of bidis inside. Sharp nosed gujjar boys in F1 t-shirts shreik in mirth as lewed jokes are passed around. I grin too. It's a ritual. Patronize the filth. An old couple talk money and ways to sell off their goat. The wrinkled man, in an elaborate ritual of grinding tobacco with his left thumb on his palms is nude beneath his chequered lungi. His red testicles hang limp.

The bus pulls over near a country liquor shop. The ustad, the driver is thirsty. He sends off the conductor. His chapped soles and black toe-nails rest near Ganesha. I close my eyes. the world is ugly. A banshee voice screams from the dashboard speakers. she sings of unconditional love. Of leaving the world of intolerence and fleeing seven seas and beyond. Incomprehensible. Salzburg. Lucern. Ibiza. Kingston-upon-thames. Mowed lawns at Camridgeshire. Bach. Enya. Enigma.

I smell scones. Peaches. English fogs. Pine cones. An auburn chambermaid pours me cream on strawberries. We are in Scunthorpe and Bertie Wooster is there cracking PJs.

I open my eyes. The bus wheezes, and gets moving. I smell ferment. Decay.

A brawny policeman sits next to me. He has a chain in his hand, on the other end is a marasmic prisoner. Rheumy red eyes hide behind a glassy stare. Whispers start. The bashful suspect is interwoven into lewed tales of fornication with bitches and camels. His shackled bare feet shuffle in shame. The old couple turn behind and inspect the chained oddity. An inquisitive child with a runny nose points at him. The prisoner's toes contract in the agony of slow and steady torture.

The bearded sub-inspector munches on roasted corn.