A Bus Ride

The bus driver was high, high as a kite.
He was fat too and his eyes were glazed over just like a dead man’s.
He held the gear stick in one hand and daaru bottle in another.
As he changed the gear, he took a few gulps.
And again
And again.
I watched in horrid fascination and thought,
maybe I’ll die today, then again, maybe not.
The bus ride was long. It was hot, sticky and stinky.
I looked around and I thought, no one cares.
The driver was drinking and smoking himself to death.
And no one cared. Even I didn’t.
I saw his face through the rear view mirror,
and my stomach lurched.
I saw dry, red insomnia ridden eyeballs
straining against the twelve o’clock afternoon sun,
colourless parched skin,
and a ghost of a man.
Being high as a kite and all,
he unfortunately saw nothing but a mix of yellow and white with hints of red and green.
The yellow was slowly fading away and then there was only white.
The bus banged into a car and everything went black.
I was throw in front.
I was only eleven years old then.
I was numb all over, and it hurt too.
My mouth was bitter, I had bitten my own tongue.
As I straightened myself up avoiding the bodies I thought, blood tastes weird.
Then I spat some out.
I inhaled some diesel and vomited.
Someone grabbed me by the arm and flung me out of the bus.
I hit the road hard, and it hurt like hell.
I had dislocated my shoulder.
He had dislocated my shoulder.
The bus driver rested his face on the steering wheel and looked at me.
He probably didn’t want me dirtying the floor.
He kept on staring. I realised he was dead.
What a damn shame I thought.


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