Summer of ‘89

This narrative is about civil societies outside the politics.

Everyday people allowed to tear each other apart while embracing their daily commutes, ailing and wailing thro’ the public bus services.

For all I know, as a regular student staged in such stable streets, from the beginning to the end, and on course to seek that special tutelage called college, I felt like an innocent pilgrim, trapped off and on, and for the most part remaining pathetically the same, but so far as I can recall,  I was beheld in a repeated combative swagger. Each time I got off the bus I would either have a story to tell or salvage my own (dispatched,) limbs thoroughly crisscrossed in whatsoever manner. To me getting in and out of the public transportation was nothing short of a stampede escape.

And then,  those summertimes were nowhere near the dreamy highs of the Shakespearean era.

It wasn’t any comedy of errors either. Rather, it was more of a summer vanquished in spiritual dialectics. Actually the true testament to it was the way it made me orate pleasantries while descending the bus. Out of all the kindest drop lines I would prefer to render this: “O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down.” It was no where near the famous —“ring-ah-ring-ah -roses ,” with its thrice abiding torpedo swirls—even if it were to be mistakenly understood so. And whilst tragedy flourished over such entourages, some wept and others perceived those welling souls as —honorable die hards. A few mild hearted ones beheld tremors terrorized by those spectacles. Nevertheless in those places tempers swelled with pride due to the blazing heat. Yes,  it was simply not possible to stand back or go far away from any of those mangled lowly courtesies. Admittedly fawning and gawking had a different connotation. The sparkles ✨ had more of a thunderbolt effect and with no thunderclaps for staying static one had to flow through it quite quickly—fully switching on the enlightened effect. Yes, any downright angel 😇 could bump into someone and have intense effects pressing upon her instantly.

Strangely, the mystic roll thro’ those realms gathered all  three— perception, reception, inception; everything integrated in that ordinary

episodic imagery. And sporadically a thud stop with people falling off the bus was nothing unusual. And spreading through such a sprawling felt like a plasma regime, invoking a unique sort of valor.

Sometimes barely bathed bodies automatically spurred quintessential yogic practices like hard and hardly breathing. The sight was literally breathtaking!

The distressing compactness and its sheer congested space added that hot pan sizzle effect during summertime.

The air was filled with an array of strange aromas compelling us to sing paeans of joy.

Oftentimes leaping forward with ludicrous sighs!

Also, through it all —the “first-time-ever-climbers,”  c’d vesture pathetic pities, bequeathing the legacy of being touched (wrongfully,) whereas the seasoned w’d easily reign those emerging sillies. Supremely, everyone had their own just -in- time alternates to survive, knowing fully well that there was a bigger spirit —that universal consciousness guiding and protecting one and all. So, those were the mandatory moves to cope with the greater good that had gone awry.

The common gentry was subjected to such graciously inflicted wrongs.

Sometimes, amidst those bustling city buses, our sense of holiness got skewed as and when we heard of something in the line of cow bells colliding with the some conch shells . So arbitrarily innocence seemed to be slipping away with the eerie sounds of holy bells echoing all around at random intervals.

Uncertain what to do next we would somehow feign salvage and coarsely craft quiet relief measures to handle such an unimaginable situation.

Any trespassers would be pricked with our safety pins as a form of punishment.

Thus riding such dominions —made us proficient in composing our own immediate calm. It was a whole care consolation until we reached our final abodes.

Today I remember those good old days with great attention; and compare it remarkably to other guerrilla  warfares.

I won’t lie, shrunk to all measures, I still remember how mortified I would get by the time I would reach the temples of wisdom.

Hours of sweltering heat and the emerging virtues of early optimism all got thoroughly seeded there and later blossomed elsewhere. I mean whatsoever lessons came from

bearing those two hour valiant rides, and walking straight into classes without getting traumatized made us gladiators. Tremendously enduring whatsoever coming our way was an unclouded miracle, and handling everything from the unknowns to the knowns, we have found our nirvana.

As I bring back those scenes from  the most remembered, I hold great attention to those incidents which brought out the good better and best in us.

In ways those street buses were every day wisdom schools. They were  perfect stagecoaches casting their early spells of resurrection especially when crossing over people was the top most priority, with the final construal of a “ascend and descend,” casted in a diem.

‘Twas more like a bridge over the common predicament successfully crossed with the help of common sense.

And with that top notch effective military equipment ( pin 📍 📌 🧷 ,) I —aspired for that blissful end.

The toils of straining behind congested crowds and never sufficiently getting into the bus to finally reach the destination is surely a sign of pulling valiant. It was no ordinary feat to clasp the virility offered as a substitute to genuine joyride.

Just imagine being placed under such attacks amidst hecklers owning rights to invade anybody’s privacy. I call them oddball activists.As I look back,  I seem to have stored up great oddities in terms of sights , smells and sounds. Today this vent has unloosened past and  on second thoughts, it’s like a breakage fled from sheer absurdities casted by destiny.

Today looking over those bulwarks is like going over it with the high tones of prayers.

Absurd experiences striking as encounters.  But,, with deeper conviction whenever I had to scrape through such situations—the privilege to gain the automatic title of a sniper has ( conferred upon me by fellow riders,) never surprised me.

It was a consolation to think that I had always wanted to get off as a peace officer but under such conditions I bloomed as a commando soldier.

Launched so,  I knew,  all would —finally go well!

P.S. I am not a passing elite nor a sanctioned erudite who feels privileged, lashing out anything over humanitarian grounds. It was just a predicament shared.