I left home and waited at the bus stand. I got an electric bus. It took two hours to reach the bus stop in front of the Secretariat. The protests were just about to begin. A large group of media personnel was standing there. I managed to get off at the bus stop right in front of the Secretariat. There is a large statue of Diwan Sir T. Madhava Rao there. That is how the place got the nickname, 'Statue'.
In my youthful days, I spent my evenings with friends until about nine o'clock, sitting on the steps beneath that statue, or on the steps of the Secretariat's wired fence wall. We would disperse after having mutton cutlet, masala dosa, and coffee at the Indian Coffee House near Spencer Junction. When actors Mohanlal, Menaka Suresh, and Priyadarshan entered the cinema field, the Coffee House faced rent issues and problems, and the building itself was demolished.
Ganesan's electric bus is an experience. It is soundless, it doesn't shake or jolt the passengers, and it doesn't bounce you high up. It does have one drawback: it moves very slowly within the city. The bus took two hours to reach the Statue.
The bank was quite crowded. I waited for my turn. A person, smiling, approached me in the bank's busy area. I looked up. It was Kuruvilla Sir. He was an Additional Secretary in the Law Department at the Secretariat – a good post. It's been twelve years since he retired. He lives near Palayam Bakery Junction. I have visited his house. He has two children. His daughter and her husband are in Ireland. His son is a high-ranking officer in Central Intelligence in Delhi. He had approached me to get details of five or six items of Homeopathic medicines for his daughter's children in Ireland, as they frequently fall ill, and to buy and send them. That turned into a deep friendship.
When I was about to leave after my bank work was over, he rushed over to me and asked if there were good Homeopathic medicines for piles (Arshas) and whether Homeopathic treatment would be sufficient. I asked who it was for. He replied it was for his Missus. I asked if there was blood, and he replied 'Yes' to that too.
After explaining the remedies, I hurried to the bus stop at Statue and managed to catch a Kazhakkootam bus. I got off at Kazhakkootam and waited for the next bus. Since the rush time was over, I was extremely tired. I was sweating profusely, and my body tasted salty all over. Then I felt uncomfortable; I am not used to sweating much. If I do sweat, I won't feel peace until I bathe in slightly warm water with a heater and refresh myself.
My home is only a short distance away; I could go by autorickshaw. But the shopkeepers and auto drivers in the vicinity are those who squeeze and exploit everyone, particularly the employees of the nearby Technology Park. So, I waited for the bus. Until the bus arrived, I wished I could sit for a while, so I looked around. I was standing near a large tree. A cement platform had been built around the tree for people to sit on. Women and men were sitting there, waiting for the bus. A little further away, a stout woman was busily selling lottery tickets under a beach umbrella. On another side, there were many different types of shops.
I felt that many of those shops lacked cleanliness. I wouldn't be able to go into any of those shops to relieve my tiredness with tea, 'vada,' or ice cream. As far as I am concerned, those shops were unclean. On the other side of the road were various good shops.
After a while, a seat on the tree platform became vacant. I went and sat there. The person sitting next to me looked at me and smiled warmly, as if familiar. I smiled back. He must have been about 60 years old. He wore a wrinkled, slightly soiled white mundu and shirt, with a white, stubbly beard and hair that looked like they hadn't been shaved for at least ten days and hadn't been dyed blue. He was sitting with his mundu tucked up. Occasionally, he would take a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, write something, and put it back. He took out an old, small Nokia phone with only a keypad, called someone, and then put the phone back in his pocket. He was also receiving calls. I became curious and watched him. He noticed that I was observing him. He looked at my face and smiled again. Then he asked me what my job was. When I told him, the next question was what my name was. I told him that too.
I, in turn, asked him, "How old are you?" He began to speak softly... "I am seventy years old, Sir. For 38 years, my job was driving (holding the steering wheel). Now, without a 'third leg,' I can't climb buses. My legs have unbearable pain and tremor. I live directly in front of the Chirayinkeezh Railway Station. The film actor G.K. Pillai is my maternal uncle. I have two children: a daughter and a son. My daughter is married. Her husband is a driver for an Arab in Saudi Arabia. The younger one is my son. He is twenty-eight years old and is in Qatar, also working as an Arab's driver there. I am looking for marriage proposals for him. My wife and children prohibit me from going to work at this age. My financial situation is good. Still, I come and sit here in the morning. When KSRTC buses for busy routes stop here, I call and tell the trucks parked far away. They immediately come here and pick up people. They give me fifty rupees per vehicle," he finished saying.
Then he slowly got up, shook out his mundu, and tucked it up again. That's when I noticed it: a metal walking stick lying behind where he was sitting, looking like the stem of a long umbrella.
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