I am infamous among my close-knit circle of friends for running away from my troubles, which invariably causes lot of pain (ouch! both mental, psychological and at times heartbreak). I hate discussing issues at hand. I feel after seeing and experiencing series of never ending troubles, that time “would surely deal with it.”
But, my buddies feel that there is nothing called “time healing” therapy. It’s us and only “us”, who need to deal with the “situation”, before the situation turns out of control, kinda ugly.
And I, as always, “ulta dimaagwala” (as my friends call me mad), calmly look at them and say in a prophetic manner, “shouting and screaming would do no good”.
“Already the harm has been inflicted, the bruises are open, what use it would be.”
They’re, after all my friends, stubborn like me, won’t budge an inch from their stand.
After “fireworks” of arguments would end, I would head away to an unknown destination, most often on a bus. I have no privilege of learning the skill of cycling or riding a two-wheeler.
So, I am always at the mercy of public buses, which are always overcrowded, and always with little space for my huge self, takes me every time, where I never thought journey is destined to be.
This time, quite recently, I went to Bangalore’s Hebbal flyover, took a bus from Marathahalli and zoomed past the Outer Ring road.
"Ticket," asks the ticket-collector.
"Where is the bus going?," I ask.
Surprised at my declaration, the ticket collector in his broken hindi says, "Aap ko pata nahi to bus me kyon charte ho? (If you don't know your destination, why did you board the bus)"
To stop further embarrassment of stares and glances from co-passengers, I immediately ask the fare for the last destination of the bus.
"Hebbal, Rs 35," says the ticket collector.
The concrete facade, the struggling greenery and few dying lakes, make quite a view. I was lost in my thought, my own self, and tried to find answers to the troubles of life.
I am of course, no lord Buddha, having the guts to leave home and family in search for answers of “life”. I just make mini-escapades, I am a coward, as my friends say and I too agree silently.
In my escapades, I try to see the life outside the confines of my “secure space”. Life on roads has always intrigued me. I always want to enter the shanties, just protected by sheets of plastics, half naked children running around and mothers washing their woes and utensils over a bucket of water. In those times, I call myself, “luckiest child of god”.
Moreover, I find myself “lucky”, when I meet people like the “brave lady” at Hebbal. Such chance encounters, re-confirms that life is to live, not to run away from it.
“You are lucky to be educated and confident,” says the woman, whom I met near Hebbal flyover, five minutes after disembarking from the bus. She is any other ordinary woman, she is poor, never in newspapers, but I salute her from my heart for being brave, for being a winner in life.
A woman, who was thrown out of her home by her husband, after inflicting unimaginable violence, a woman who with cut marks and bruises on her face (courtesy her husband), decided to live her life.
“I wanted to live. After all, I have no right to kill myself. Only god can do that. So, to survive, I turned into sex work. I am a sex worker, don’t call me prostitute. Sex work too is a profession, like any other. I am no thug or thief,” she smiles, as I look directly into her eyes, trying to conceal my shock on her confident declaration.
“I am a street sex worker. This is my regular place, where I wait for my clients. A client is on his way. He’ll soon be here. What are you doing here? The evening has already descended,” she queries.
I wanted to tell her, I was trying to run away from life's trials and tribulations, but here I meet people, who have defeated all odds. One of them is you.
Instead, I smiled back and ran after the bus going back to Marathahalli, where I stay.
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