THE RED BUS AND I...

Here’s the thing about red bus rides, especially when you’re on them alone. You watch people, and you learn. For instance, you learn about the ammamas and the athaiyas and master srinus and baby vijayshanthis and how they carry sacks of vegetables from the big bad city and go home. And how they all have snazzy cell phone tunes and speak sporadic English. And how lady bus conductors yell at sloshed men trying to squeeze into the ladies seats.

The red bus is a little piece of daily Andhra life. Young Miss Sugunas, with Malley flowers in their hair, going to Prasads with young men their mothers would disapprove of. Old aunties with shaved heads. (Tirupathi, of course). Fat uncles wearing tight safari suits and mundus. Drooling babies wearing pink frocks. Saliva, lots of it.

I am the spoilt Delhi kid in the back of the bus, the one that does not fit in. The red bus, is my path to freedom. To Chinese food. (not authentic, of course- it never is authentic). The road to Prasads, where Bommarilu will run to packed houses and Aaronofsky movies will never release. To Sangeet theatre, where the air cooling does not work, and Paradise, where the fried prawns are so fucking cheap its not funny. Where McDonalds is the ultimate in cool and red ribbons on oiled hair are chic.

The average red bus ride is hot, cramped, sweaty and long as hell. It is also, I think, something that has defined my years at law school.