Gaps - Bus-stop, Bus driver, Bus Numbers

It is pointless to describe the unpleasantness of waiting for the bus to come. Is it necessary to hear another person cursing the stupid weather here?

It is pointless to describe how he is proud of himself, when he managed to predict the spot the bus exactly stops; how he could guess the number of the oncoming buses by judging the vehicle model, when the route numbers are too far to be read clearly; how often he mistook similarly shaped numbers, for instance Bus 9 for Bus 2.

At the bus stop, he often recall what she said 30years ago, “I get so impatient…I feel like boarding any bus that comes along. At least I am moving.”

Unlike his ex-girlfriend, his impatience, expressed in such self-deceptive thoughts, was to change the route numbers. He was waiting for Bus 14, but arrving bus, read in red background and white text, was ‘174’ instead, at that moment, he wished he had red paint to paint over the ‘7’ which stood between ‘1’ and ‘4’. When it was Bus 980 he was waiting, but came Bus 960, ‘6’ would appear to him, irrationally, as an incomplete ‘8’. He would have this urge to extend the curve line that emerged from the left of ‘o’ until it touches the right side. And if Bus 106 came instead of Bus 190, he imagined he could switch order of ‘0’ and ‘6’, and invert ‘6’ to ‘9’.

It is also pointless to describe the how these people feel, the expression on their faces when the bus ‘finally arrives’; how they flocked together and towards the door. But sure it was a magical sight. It was as if there was an invisible piece of magnet was fixed behind the entrance door, and these people are really made of metal: they must be androids, the force which gathered the scattered crowd.

It is not pointless to describe the look on some bus-driver’s face, the look of having too much self-importance, a kind of snobbishness in their reticence. It is not pointless to mention how the passengers are like fans running after the celebrity, however, this relationship is superficial. They were not after his autograph but the bus, his arrogance is awkward because it is not the deserved arrogance of the rock star, but the snobbish expressions of the stage crew, who were cheered and applaused, mistakenly, before the start of the concert, as the member of the band coming on stage, due to the poor lighting.

His Young Relative has more sympathy and empathy for the drivers: “I can never be a bus driver. It has nothing to do with qualifications. It is a matter of character. Of one able to withstand the traffic condition, during a jam, where the driver has no rights to make a detour; of irritating green and healthy, local and expat, helmuted cyclists who gets in the driver’s way; the kamikaze Indian and Chinese workers cycling on the road; the many idiots with driving licence; their number one nemesis ‘taxi-drivers; the horrible passengers, the threat of being assault; of driving the same route many times a day, few hundred times a year. But most importantly, a Zen control of the bowel and the bladder. What if, on a day, my stomach wasn’t feeling hundred percent? Although, not as bad as having diarrhoea.”