When waiting meant everything...

It was a regular weekday morning. I was waiting at my stop, watching buses go past me – one after another. Packed. Loud. I didn’t feel like getting into one because I wanted to wait. Simply wait.

Waiting was the best part of school.

We didnt miss buses. We chose to wait.

Back then, the bus stop was not just a place. It was a world. We would reach early – not because we were disciplined, but because we didn’t want to miss anything. The morning light would fall gently on the road as we dodged between the fallen flowers of the copper pod (perunkondrai) tree. It was magical, as it not only painted the street yellow when seen from an aerial view but the ground beneath our feet as well. Tea kadai smoke would rise like it had nowhere else to go, and the Crows, Kites, and Mynas would already be there – always before us. I even wondered if they observed us as closely as we observed them.

There would be four or five Crows – two on the electric fence and others on the signboard of the Block BDO office just opposite the bus stop. They would appear busy talking to each other, doing something or the other, and occasionally giving us an intent look.

The Kites were always hovering above us, surveying the entire area like they owned the place.

The Mynas were usually seen in groups. They were the gossip network. Constant movement. Constant noise. If something unusual happened, they knew first.

And the Koel? Vocal but shy fellas. It’s really hard to spot them, but one can’t escape their sweet song echoing between the annoying vehicular noises. It’s lovely and lights up the atmosphere even when there is nothing interesting going on.

 

The bus would appear from a distance. We could identify it even before reading the number.
“Machan, idhu namma bus da…”

We would straighten ourselves. Bags adjusted. Faces suddenly serious – like we had somewhere important to be. But as it came closer, our mood would change. It would be crowded. Always. We would see our own friends hanging at the footboard like festival decorations.

“Ennada ippdi puli mootta maathiri poreenga!”

We would shout. Laugh. The volume would increase slightly if we noticed a girl peeping out of the window seat.

But I wouldn’t board. Yes, I am well-mannered.

So, we would let it go. One after the other, the buses kept passing. Every time we even attempted to board, there would be a frown-faced conductor, who looked exactly like Bluto (from Popeye), yelling at us that another bus, a completely empty one, was right behind this one.

Encouraging us. Guiding us. Almost caring for our comfort. “How sweet,” we would think, despite the face.

And then the next bus would arrive. Same story. Only this time, the conductor would look softer, thinner, like Shaggy (from Scooby-Doo).

Different face. Same lie.

But honestly, we also loved waiting, so it didn’t matter. You know something – waiting is patience. Waiting is perseverance. Waiting is freedom.

Waiting is life, actually—if you get what I mean.

But what did we do with all that freedom?

Talking to girls, at that time, felt like one of the biggest achievements of our lives. Not board exams. Not sports day medals. This.

(You might have noticed I keep switching between “I” and “we.” That’s intentional. “I” is when I’m owning the moment njan allathe pinne yaar; “we” is when I’m safely distributing the responsibility. Hope that helps :D)

And it always began at the bus stand. The bus stand was a stage. A testing ground. We would stand there pretending to discuss homework, cricket, serious life matters like what’s for dinner or which movie would run well – Ramana or Bagavathy or Villain, but our eyes had their own syllabus.

And sometimes, we would leave buses. Not because they were crowded. Not because we were tired. But because… we were waiting. Waiting for someone.

Someone who would arrive just a few minutes late, as if time itself was waiting (or had even stopped) for her.

Someone who was about 5.5 feet tall, with a perfectly symmetrical face and two wide eyes with lustrous eyelines that contrasted beautifully with her complexion. The kind of eyes that could make a group of boys suddenly stand properly without being told.

We never said it out loud. We were far too dignified for that.

She also reminded me of an Asian Paradise Flycatcher. There were a certain grace and aura around her presence. And like the flycatcher, she didn’t belong to the noise and the crowd there. As always, she would arrive at the bus stop at the very last moment – relaxed and calm.

There was commotion, though.

Among the crows and mynas around. Maybe they were jealous. Of course. Who isn’t? Have you seen the Asian Paradise Flycatcher?

But the koel? He appeared unseen, but his song grew in frequency, reverberating around the bus stop. Maybe he was communicating something. But to whom?

Honestly, I started noticing all this only after my friend began talking about her frequently. Yes, he had a major crush on her back then when we were in grades 11 and 12. In fact, he told her directly once when he got a chance, over the phone. He was gutsy and awesome. I could only wish for that.

But now that I am free, and my words are flowing like an endless stream… who is there to stop me?

“Machan, next bus varudhu da…”

“Theriyum… aana wait pannalaam.”

Everyone knew the reason, and hence there was no argument or confrontation. We knew we would be late. And that meant facing the PT sir.

Ah, PT sir. The legendary guy. A man of discipline. Useless structure. And a five-foot-long cane that had more authority than the school management. He enjoyed it because it gave him attention. Attention he wanted from students, teachers, and the school management. And what exactly that attention was… nobody knew.

This need for attention sometimes brought out our cruel side too. I still remember the day he made fun of me for not playing volleyball the way he expected, and made me run around the ground repeatedly. It wasn’t the punishment that hurt – it was his words, every time I passed my friends. And it hurt even more when a few of them joined him.

It didn’t stop that day. It stayed long enough for me to stop playing during PT period, almost at school entirely.

But things changed in college. I got more active in sports than ever before. I played district-level badminton, became a long-distance runner in NCC, and co-led my department cricket team to victory. And now, for the past decade, I’ve been working in education, trying to bring in that one thing I felt was missing back then: fun. Because when learning is fun, children learn.
A lot.

 

Alright, coming back to our story. PT sir would stand near the gate – waiting, not like us, but with purpose. And it was almost impossible to convince him. No matter what excuse we tried (“Sir, bus late sir…”, “Sir, traffic sir…”), it never seemed to reach him. For a while, I even thought he had hearing issues. But later I realised it wasn’t him – it was all teachers with selective hearing, especially when it came to excuses. Even the dogs near the gate would lower their voices when he stood there.

 

One day, something rare happened - a bus arrived almost empty, too perfect to trust; we looked at each other, hesitated, and just then a Koel called from behind the neem tree, and somehow that was enough for us to step back and let it go.

We laughed not because it was funny, but because it felt right and only much later did I realise we weren’t waiting for buses, we were waiting for moments where nothing important was happening and everything important was.

Now, at a signal or bus stops, I watch buses move on without anyone waiting, until I notice a Crow looking at me like it remembers and I smile, because we didn’t miss buses, we chose to wait.