The unsung art of waiting

IT started at the bus stop, under a peeling old sign promising a vehicle that never quite came on time. Waiting, I realise, is an art form rarely celebrated; it has no international day, no monument, no viral hashtag. Yet every morning, millions of us practise it — quietly, without applause — at traffic lights, in queues, and in life itself.

Most mornings, there are at least four other persons with me. We are a mismatched company: the impatient college student tapping her phone screen, the retiree scanning the street with the vigilance of a sentry, and the shop clerk sipping tea from a steel tumbler. I am the observer — an accidental collector of other people’s fidgeting.

Eye contact is rare, yet we invent camaraderie through sighs, foot shuffles and the occasional shared glance that says: “We are in this together, against the buses.”

I once witnessed a remarkable scene: a man, briefcase in hand, walked ahead to the edge of the road and looked down, as if his glare alone could summon the great chariot of local transport. When nothing arrived but more dust and a stray dog, he shrugged, smiled at me and said, “In this country, punctuality is a rumour.” We laughed, and for a second, the waiting felt like a choice. It is curious how humour often arrives before the bus does.

Over time, I began to notice how waiting stretches perception. The minutes seem longer, but the mind grows quieter. The world, stripped of urgency, reveals its forgotten details — a fluttering newspaper page, a child’s laughter from across the street, the fragrance of frying pakoras emanating from a nearby stall.

Sometimes, in the unstructured hours between schedules and expectations, the mind finds its own amusements. I make up backstories for my fellow waiters: maybe the student is texting her mother about a botched exam, or the old man is replaying old cricket matches in his mind. The anticipation stitches us together for a fleeting moment. I wonder if they, too, invent stories about me — a quiet stranger with too much time on his hands.

There are mornings when the bus is late beyond all logic, and irritation simmers like invisible heat. Waiting teaches humility; it reminds us we are not always the authors of our schedules.

Once, during the monsoon, the bus took so long that the sky changed moods twice — sunshine, drizzle, then a downpour. None of us moved. We shared a collective umbrella of patience, and when the first drops touched our faces, the old man started humming a Kishore Kumar song. It was off-key, but oddly comforting. For those few minutes, time didn’t matter; what mattered was the shared shelter of human endurance.

There is a strange, almost uplifting freedom in waiting. With nothing to do and nowhere to go — at least not immediately — life pauses and the world offers its smallest spectacles: a sparrow pecking at a samosa crumb, a gust of wind scattering newspapers, a stranger’s random smile. The clock’s tyranny loosens its grip; we become, however briefly, timeless.

Eventually, the bus always arrives. Sometimes, miraculously early; mostly, fashionably late. The odd fraternity at the bus stop breaks apart as we climb in, each of us suddenly remembering our own destinations. Faces that had silently shared time now turn away to the windows. And yet, somewhere within, a quiet part of me keeps waiting — not for the bus, but for that stillness to return.