"Dada, ticket ta dekhi!" comes the sullen voice of the unseen conductor from a twisted mass of arms, legs and heads soaked in the gentle aroma of sweating bodies and you instantly supress the urge to bite back with a couple of your trademark expletives and quietly reach into your backpocket, albeit with a lot of struggle, amidst annoyed grunts from your ever so self-conscious co-passengers. Then, just when you are about to slip a ten-rupee note with one hand to the racket leader with the jingling bag standing securely at his post, the other hand holding on to your humble wallet, the bus gives a sudden bone cracking jolt as the driver(laughing at the misfortune of his hapless captives) decides in his infinite wisdom to brake as if all God's holy cows stood barring the way.

As you experience a Matrix-style time-warp, slowly falling onto the arms of the uptight lady in front of you like a 90s hindi film lover, you experience a certain déjà vu, you realise you have through this all before. You recover yourself just in time to save yourself from major embarrassment, and turn an apologetic eye towards the lady only to be shot down by a scorching look, and you feel like you are in the focal plane of a giant convex lens in the sun. As you regain your composure and collect your balance you are shoved back and forth once again in a mammalistic tide, everyone trying to get down at their stop, and they will drag you down with them if that is what it takes to make shore. What's worse, the angry lady decides to leave you a sweet token from your time together, a really sweet kiss from her heels on your unguarded, slipper-shod toes.

The bus is an interesting study for the intellectual sort. You get people of all psyches here - its like a human museum. There are certain stereotypes - the most common being the intellectuals themselves. These people bring a newspaper or a book clutched in their hands as if the 36 seater bus crammed with 100-odd human goods was a private library. They are not to be disturbed and not to be deprived of their window seat, otherwise you may as well gear up for a verbal battle with as much point as a round-table conference with Gandhi.

Then you get the "seat-hoggers". Years of dedicated practice and passion for sitting have turned these people into masters in the art of slithering in and out of the human mass inside the bus. As soon as they spy indications of someone vacating their seat there they are, breathing down your neck, challenging you to take what is rightfully yours, what you have earned through patience and hard work.

Then there is the "style-baaz". They are typically identified by their cheap and cheesy attire, a huge metallic-plastic buckle, a chinese mobile in their hand, plastic headphones in their ears, a Salman Khan "Tere Naam" hairstyle and an air of being the prince of Bengal itself. These proud sons can be seen hanging from the doors of the bus, or striking a pose with their arms raised to hold the hand-rails above, their short shirts and low-waist jeans being a nauseating sight. Yes, what will our country do without these fashionistas?

Down from the bus, you breath a sigh of relief. The bus stop is a place of recollection and peace. It is a place of meditation, to find your inner self amidst the tumult of the world outside. That is, until the black fumes from the "Bharat Stage IV" vehicles overwhelm you and you come to your senses. You start walking to the next phase of your journey, the Metro. There is a common misconception among

many people of Kolkata and even outside, that the Metro is the only thing that works in Kolkata. Well, those are old wives' tales now. I was blind to this fact, until the day I walked into a metro station with a girl. It seems as if there is a consensus amongst the security personnel of the metro that only gentlemen pose a threat to the safety of the public. As most of you may already know, it is quite the opposite. If you are unaware of the terrorising capabilities of womankind, you are as of yet, in a blissful land of serenity.

Well, that is for more qualified and experienced writers to write, I may as well return to the topic at hand. As I duly zip my bag after the joke of a security check I turn to find that my friend is way ahead, her privacy still unintruded. Shaking my head at the callousness of our brave protectors, I make my way to the ticket counter. As I feed my ticket into the electronic mouth gaurding the entrance to the labyrinth below, it emits a stutter and starts choking. Wow! I slayed the beast guarding the untold riches of the underworld. The poor circus lion is attended to by a ringmaster while another minotaur takes my humble payment and lets me in.

Inside the big metal monster its as if the public from the bus had shadowed you inside. There was the uptight lady, there the  swinging hip-shaking young Manish Malhotra...in this uncluttered madness comes flutters of conversation from the other passengers. One young guy points to the warning sign above the door: "Do not carry inflammable articles" and wonders aloud to his friend, grinning and winking, "Who let that girl in?" "Do not stand on the vestibule!", fine! lets spit on it! Disgusted you avert your eyes. There are seats marked "Senior Citizens", three seniors citizens of about 25 years of age gently doze off on these while the white-haired be-spectacled wizened man stands watching them, hardly able to keep his balance in the thundering gait of the monster.

Out from those dark tunnels you emerge victorious! Now its just one rickshaw-ride, one train ride, one launch, two autos, one tram, and one van ride to your destination. Happy Journey! Huh! More like crappy journey...

Wearied and a thousand years old from your many adventures on the road, you look towards home, back in that same old bus, the same old rush, the same old "ticket ta dekhi"...but wait!!! Who's that waving at the bus to stop? Who's that with the face of a thousand angels at the heaven's banquet, a thousand roses in the dawn's bouquet? I quickly take my bag on my lap, hoping against hope that it was she who took my side, not the fisherman in the blue lungi, with his shirt pocket stuffed with "biri". As I pray with all my might, she turns towards the other side. As I despair and look away she turns back and sits by my side! Ah! A day badly begun, but all's well that ends with a turn. As I blush and look away, thinking what a beautiful day, the hoarse-voiced devil at the door, shouts and shouts out his throat. As he peddles his wares of destinations to go, and paths to tread, this lovely young lady realises her mistake. This bus won't tread the path she desires, so she from the bus retires, and I with all my reveries shattered, lost that what mattered. Cursing and cursing in my mind the devil's son, I realise who it was now sitting by my side, the cool wind against my face carried the stench of fish, and I alas the poor one, am lost again in the same old tale.