I am cheap; a shameless spend thrift who gets chills down her spine when faced with the prospect of landing a deal, preferably involving little or no effort (or resources) on my part. I can be more resourceful with a 'dollar a day' than the daily wage labourer, probably why I find myself in their company most of the time. I have traveled by public transport ever since I could be trusted to tie my own shoelaces without assistance and have always wondered how I developed the stomach for it.
My existence is characterised by a curious dichotomy. Half my time is spent attending wine and cheese events in an effort to convince millionaires to spend their spare change on supporting projects in the arts and the other half of my time is spent jostling for space on buses with middle-aged, belligerent women, just rearing for a fight, and boy do I give them occasion to fight.
All my finer emotions fly out the bus window the minute I find myself forcefully nestled against the armpit of a fellow traveler. My resolve to be the bigger person, to be deferential to the elderly, to resist the urge to step on everyone's toes, to resist the urge to cluck disapprovingly every time someone nudges me or messes up my hair, everything begins to crumble. Like a cornered mongrel I see red every time someone muscles into a seat I have set my sights on, or when someone leans so far into my space that my head rests against their bosom like an errant (and rather saucy) groundnut freed from the terrors of death by mastication only to be trapped in a valley of darkness from which there is no escape. I use the peanut metaphor because EVERYONE who travels by bus seems to love 'em.
So why do I persist in using a mode of transport that clearly gives me high blood pressure? Well that's because deep down, under all the snobbery and vanity, I know that I am a foul-mouthed cow, who's one nudge away from a brawl.
So I guess in coming to terms with my love affair with public transport I have realised that my dilemma did not concern learning how to moo. My dilemma was to find my voice as the proud Indian, desi cow that I am.
My existence is characterised by a curious dichotomy. Half my time is spent attending wine and cheese events in an effort to convince millionaires to spend their spare change on supporting projects in the arts and the other half of my time is spent jostling for space on buses with middle-aged, belligerent women, just rearing for a fight, and boy do I give them occasion to fight.
All my finer emotions fly out the bus window the minute I find myself forcefully nestled against the armpit of a fellow traveler. My resolve to be the bigger person, to be deferential to the elderly, to resist the urge to step on everyone's toes, to resist the urge to cluck disapprovingly every time someone nudges me or messes up my hair, everything begins to crumble. Like a cornered mongrel I see red every time someone muscles into a seat I have set my sights on, or when someone leans so far into my space that my head rests against their bosom like an errant (and rather saucy) groundnut freed from the terrors of death by mastication only to be trapped in a valley of darkness from which there is no escape. I use the peanut metaphor because EVERYONE who travels by bus seems to love 'em.
So why do I persist in using a mode of transport that clearly gives me high blood pressure? Well that's because deep down, under all the snobbery and vanity, I know that I am a foul-mouthed cow, who's one nudge away from a brawl.
So I guess in coming to terms with my love affair with public transport I have realised that my dilemma did not concern learning how to moo. My dilemma was to find my voice as the proud Indian, desi cow that I am.
