My daily commute to college was on bus number 37. Legend has it that Rajinikanth used to be a conductor on this route. The truth is merely in the vicinity – Rajinikanth was actually the conductor on bus number 10A which plied between Srinagar and Majestic. Most Bangaloreans, however, with a daily commute on a bus anywhere in the neighbourhood of Srinagar try to co-opt Rajinikanth for their own bus routes (not if it were close to Majestic though; that would be too far-fetched even for Bangalorean imagination).

For three years, while I was an undergrad, I travelled on the 37 at pretty much the same time every morning. The routine meant that, at least in the mornings, there were only a handful of buses that serviced the route. So, I became familiar with those buses in the way you’re familiar with things that rattle your bones daily. With the wounds in the rexine, those seats where the sponge protruded out and tempted you to yank out more of it – which you had to resist, because it was a test of character, and because the government had bigger problems than my sponge cravings. But you definitely needed to avoid those seats where the bottom was loose and moved with your derrière every time a cow came in front of the bus.

It wasn’t just the buses that were familiar, it was the bus drivers and the conductors too. A vast majority of the conductors were women. But regardless, they all had similar mannerisms. Especially the terms they used to address the commuters, carefully curated by age and gender. There were four categories: young female, young male, old female and old male, and people from these categories were referred to as putti, putta, maidam, and saar, respectively. Having only four categories was advantageous for speed and efficiency. I have yet to see a bus conductor on the BMTC refuse bills because they were of a high denomination. They would even happily accept bills of a thousand rupees (those pre demonetisation beauties!) for a ticket costing seven rupees and within seconds hand over the entire balance while this undergrad, who was studying linear algebra at college, blinked hard. I mostly never bought tickets because of my bus pass, and I was always asked to present it. And whenever I was asked, I was generously categorised as Putti. Now, fifteen years later, no conductor would possibly refer to me as Putti, and that makes me sad and wistful. I was not attached to the term because it trilled my vanity – that was usually achieved when I was asked for age proof while entering movie theatres for A-rated films. Maidam is just a respectful term for a woman, but Putti carried with it affection. Easy and unquestioning affection.

As someone in the Putti category, I almost never sat in the bus; there was always enough older people on the bus that it would not have been decent. Usually, I was crammed at the front of the bus, close to the hot engine next to the driver (this was a pleasant relief in the winters but quite horrible in the summers). There was this one young driver I was very fond of. Purely for anthropological reasons, I should record that he was unfairly handsome for a bus that smelled like hot metal and yesterday’s rain. He always gave a polite smile when I got on, and an abashed smile when he had to brake hard. There were a couple of months when I didn’t see him, and I wondered about it. But following those months he was back. Apparently, I hadn’t been the only one who had noticed that he was missing, because another lady (in the Maidam bracket) asked him about it. Being in the Maidam tier also meant that she could ask such questions with impunity, while I had to rely on the nosiness, I mean kindness, of strangers. He told her that he had been transferred internally and had been driving the Volvo for those few months. These Volvos were something, by the way. They had these big beautiful sideview mirrors that jutted out like floppy ears on a dog, and they were the reddest of red. But most importantly, they were closed off from the dust and smoke of the city and snugly air conditioned. She then questioned him as to why he was back to the downgraded buses. It was really asked as if he had been demoted. But he replied that he had chosen to not drive the Volvos anymore because the air conditioning used to give him a cold.

This whole time, I was quietly listening, pretending not to listen. But at his reply, I burst out laughing loudly. He looked at me very shocked – as if I were laughing at a terrible tragedy in his life. He asked me why I was laughing, and to my utter detriment I could only laugh more. He was so earnest, trying to convince me of his tribulations in the Volvo. It was not that I did not believe him. He even had the red eyes and the runny nose to prove his suffering. But I just could not get past the fact that he had the opportunity to stay in the insulated, air conditioned Volvos, but his body would not have it. So there he was, sniffling, sincere, and voluntarily returning to the dust. I think he got it, though. Because he smiled, shaking his head as he turned towards the road, while I continued laughing. What I didn’t tell him was that it was nice to have him back on my route. I had missed his smiles, and the face that came with them.

Apart from the regular drivers and conductors, there were regulars among the commuters too. Regulars who were oddly territorial about newcomers. It was probably that you only wanted to be mushed close to the same people every day rather than different people. Perhaps it felt too much like infidelity. But it was only on my onward journey, which was during rush hour, where the buses were jam packed and filled with familiar people. My travel back was a different story. I left college at different times and that coupled with the varying accumulated delays of the buses meant that on the way back it was almost always an unfamiliar bus with unfamiliar people. On one such travel back, I started to feel faint when I was standing in the bus. I had donated blood earlier in the day, and it was the very first time I had done so. Even though the nurse at the blood bank had given me some mango juice afterwards (which I disliked, but consumed because it was free), I started to feel light-headed. Before I fainted fully, I announced to no one in particular in the bus that I was going to faint. Thankfully, I didn’t lose consciousness at any point. I was aware, but incapable. I then felt hands reach for me and I couldn’t tell if it belonged to one person or two. I was sat down, as a Maidam, someone I would usually have stood up for, vacated her seat for me. And then another Maidam shoved a piece of Cadbury’s milk chocolate in my mouth, and all the while I kept thinking, surprisingly calmly for someone mid-faint, This chocolate isn’t poisoned, right…? I don’t think I’ll ever forget how that chocolate felt. Not how it tasted, how it felt. I could literally feel my brain unclogging, blood rushing about like it was business as usual, my arms got stronger, and I felt the will to lift my neck.

I have always been a big fan of the BMTC. While it was my primary mode of transport to get to college, I used it to go everywhere: to the movies, second-hand bookstores (because those books have character! Or maybe because they were cheap?), to meet friends, surprise visits to my grandmother’s house, lectures at the Indian Institute of Science, and even to get my heart broken.

At nineteen, everything mattered with an intensity that now feels like it belongs in a book. A book that I never got around to writing. Even the sobbing mattered intensely. Especially the sobbing. So I sobbed quietly on the bus. It was an off‑hour bus, not packed, and roomy enough for my sorrow to have its own seat. Most people didn’t even notice. But the conductor did. He stood by my seat, made to walk away, as if he was about to move on like conductors do. But then, suddenly changed his mind and sat down beside me. I wanted to pretend he didn’t exist and he was happy to let me. He sat at the very edge of the seat, was turned away from me, and was quietly studying his worn‑out sandals. He waited patiently for me to be done, and then slowly turned towards me and gave me a quiet smile. I have grown cynical of my young love since then, but I have never forgotten that bus conductor sitting next to me, waiting for me to stop crying, just so he could give me a smile. A smile that held years of experience. His smile seemed to know that one day this would not matter to me so much. But he also knew that there was no use telling me. My daily commute on the legendary BMTC only lasted three years while I was an undergrad. During these three years, I barely ever paid any mind to the city from the bus. For me, the city was always inside the bus.

This essay was originally submitted for the SJU Prize for the Personal Essay 2026, with the theme ‘The City, from a Bus’, where it won in the Open Category. It was also published on the blog of the English Department at St. Joseph’s College (Autonomous), Bangalore – The Open Dosa.