Bus Ride

Mrs. Meenakshi Sreenivasan hummed gently to herself. M.S. Subhalakshmi’s rendition of Meera bhajan was her favourite – it never failed to soothe and calm her senses. This was the best time of her day between 10:30am and lunchtime. Mr.Sreenivasan and the children had left for the day. Ayo! Here she was thinking of them again as children. Both had finished their education and had such good posts in the city. God was great. Even her Mr. Sreenivasan had been nicest of husbands –undemanding and mild mannered. The only thing he required was that rasam be good – and it always was. These were the thoughts that filled Mrs. MS’s head as she pottered around the garden in her new nook for ayurvedic herbs. It was lucky for her that her father, Vaidya Muttuswamy, famous in their entire district, had thought it fit to share with his only child some of his wisdom on ayurvedic plants, herbs, roots, potions. It still made Mrs.MS chuckle as she remembered the fits her mother would throw as the father and daughter frequently disappeared into the garden, or poured over old manuscripts, or concocted a new potion. Her Mr. Sreenivasan had been quite pleased when she had recently decided to renew her interest in ayurveda. God knows what she did with herself all day! But as long as she remained busy and happy playing with her plants, powders and obscurely labeled bottles of colored potions and did not grumble while he read his newspaper, he was satisfied. It made her giggle to imagine the look on his face if she were to tell him what she really was up to. Dear Mr. Sreenivasan- what did he know!

Today she was happy –it would be 10th bus ride- not a small feat in only last one year. In all the cases she had been successful. Hadn’t her father rightly told her that she could achieve anything she desired as long as she set her mind to it? So now after almost twenty five years of marriage and raising family, after all those dragging years of tedious boredom she had finally discovered an interest that amused her constantly and she considered worthwhile.

It wasn’t as if there were any streak of aggression in her. She considered herself very reasonable and God fearing. And without Almighty’s help could her success be this complete? God had empowered women to create life –made them mothers of creation. But sometimes creativity could also go haywire and had to be rectified-so to speak. So when the other day Lalitha, that nice young girl next door, came visiting with her mother and the topic of the harassment that she had to face every day on the bus came up, Mrs. MS suddenly and very clearly discovered her vocation. After all men born of woman’s womb had little right to insult that favour. Ayo! how disgusting, how repulsive. It had recalled in a flash the dark corridors of her childhood and Nagu mama’s waylaying her, his dirty hands. But no, her decision had nothing to do with her past.

The rest had been easy. Mrs.MS took to taking those significant bus rides with a little needle dipped in her homemade potion. On rats the reaction was immediate. In the first case she had lingered to witness her experiment to completion – it must have taken all of 10 seconds. Then death for the aberrant and a small freedom for his victims. She knew that her task could/would take a lifetime. And would suspect a portly matron in two “mukutis” and her grocery bag getting off to catch another bus home?

Today once again she gathered the tools of her trade, arranged her ‘champike’ in her hair and with her shopping bag made for the bus stop. No.39 was along soon and she soon got herself a ladies seat and settled back in comfort. The bus got crowded as it approached the city – this was where the action usually took place. Sure enough, soon an arm extended beyond her side to reach the curved young posterior just beyond. Mrs.MS reached inside her bag, carefully got her needle out and reached it inside the trouser leg next to her – strange! That trouser looked familiar. She turned back and raised her eyes to that familiar face even as she felt the needle contact in that fatal prick. Oh no! Mr. Sreenivasan, Sreenu, could it be you? Oh Venkata, Oh Shiva, Oh Gopala, what have I done? Could it really be you? My Lord?

She watched in a shocked silence as the body shivered and slumped to the floor.