I leaned precariously on the red coarsely plastered length of wall that made up the front perimeter of the bus stop. A bespectacled man nudges his elbow into my upper torso as he turns the crumpled pages of his evening newspaper. I ignore him and look around me. People around me are engrossed in various activities; like my neighbour here - who is staring open mouthed at today’s Mid-day mate. Or the giggling girls on the pavement behind me chirping about some song they like on the radio as they band their heads together and share a pair of earphones. The middle aged lady in a green sari is juggling linen bags from one hand to another as her shoulders sway till she decides to balance them on her chappals. A line of rickshaws wait patiently and the rickshaw-wallahs peer out at the crowd with a strange longing, trying to make eye contact. I too stand there patiently but my mood quickly turns belligerent as beads of sweat appear on my brow. This is the time of year-sometime around mid-February, when Bombay's pleasant weather dissolves into its usual hot and sultry experience. Oh well that’s life at a bus stop: far more relaxed than a railway station but then again the bus is a far more relaxed medium on the whole.
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