Con Air replay aboard a bus!

Parbina Rashid

The ability to make my face expressionless has paid me rich dividends at times, especially when I am travelling by public transport, which I often do. Mostly, I come across people who are curious about me. ‘Are you a foreigner?’ is the starting point of a conversation. My reply is a disinterested ‘no’, but that would not be a dampener. The next one would be a little more forceful, trying to draw me into the conversation. ‘Then, where are you from?’

‘Assam’, I say. A monosyllabic one again. I know what would come next. ‘What brings you to this part of the country?’ 

‘My Punjabi husband.’ 

‘Love marriage?’ 

‘No, I had distributed my tewa and kundali all over the country, and it matched with his, so I took the first flight out of Assam….’ So many times I have been tempted to say that but every time I restrain myself. For, a lengthy narrative, even one full of sarcasm, brings on more personal questions. So, as the last resort I would dial some friend back home and plunge into a lengthy conversation in Assamese, much to the annoyance of my co-passenger.

But the journey the other day didn’t go the way I expected. I was just about settling down on my seat, and working on that blank look to deter any prospective persuader, a group of police personnel got in, holding a man by a handcuff. My mind immediately went to the movie, Con Air. 

They sat in the row in front of me, and from where I was sitting I could take a good look at the handcuffed man. He didn’t look like any of those notorious characters from the movie. Rather, clad in a beige kurta-pyjama and a saffron patka, he could easily pass off as a granthi. 

But he didn’t have the handcuff on for nothing! I kept my eyes fixed on the group. As soon as they settled down, the policeman holding the handcuff let it go, freeing the prisoner’s hand completely. And the plump policeman, who looked more like a maternal uncle, threw his gun carelessly on his lap. 

I went into panic mode. What if this man picks up the gun and makes a bid for his freedom, either by hijacking the bus or pumping bullets into us? On a cold rainy night I was in mood for any such (mis)adventure.

Neither were they, it seemed. As soon as they settled down, the plump policeman and the prisoner got engrossed in talking, like two long-lost friends, their heads huddled and expression animated. As they spoke in chaste Punjabi, I could snatch only bits and pieces of their conversation. They talked about medicines, the nutritional values of cabbage and eggplants and the deplorable condition of jails. 

By now, getting home safely looked like a possibility. As the bus pulled at my destination, I looked at the two and smiled as their huddled heads separated just enough to make way for me. 

I looked back. They were still talking, enjoying the transitory bond, forged in the confines of a moving bus... till destination does them part.