His Own World

It was an ordinary morning. I stepped into an almost vacant bus that would take me to work. In spite of all the empty seats, I saw a man dressed as a woman sitting next to the opposite gate. He seemed oblivious to the some-curious, some-demeaning stares and awkward glances his co-passengers shot at him.

Happy in his own world, he felt freedom in having the wind playfully smacking him in the face. The pallu of his gaudily sequined purple saree kept going out of control from behind him, and he let it fly about. Clearly control is not something he liked. He hummed to himself random songs of his heart as he continued to look outside, absolutely nonchalant about all eyes on him. He was happy in his own cocooned world.

Two hawker-women got on the bus. One of them held out her hand as a friend would to another, and helped her settle down. The second sat cross-legged on the floor, next to the cross-dresser. She elicited his gentle attention and a smile when she untied the the huge bundle around her shoulders to reveal a gurgling cherubic infant. The baby squinted against the sudden light and let out a small chuckle of delight. The mother and her friend laughed and the child was smothered with adoring kisses. The man extended his hand to touch the child's cheek. It was a touch that reminds one of a caregiver - soft, loving, tender, giving and passionate. The child reciprocated with a smile of recognition of that love.

Another stoppage, another girl boarded and allowed herself a space next to where all of us were. Impeccably attired in a carefully-careless sense of fashion, she finished texting on her swanky iPhone and crouched to play with the child in his mother's lap. She exchanged a few dialogues with the infant in baby language, a smile with the man and picked up a bangle from the lady's wares-box. She asked her how much they cost, picked up a few more and paid for them.

Yet another stop for the bus. The girl gave a last beatific smile to the baby and got off. More women embark. Two friends, in particular, looked in the direction of the small group and turned their faces away as if they had seen something unappealing. The man continued to be unaffected and hummed to the wind blowing away the sparse hair on his head. The women began piling their ware-boxes again and the mother strapped the baby to herself, preparing to get off at the next stop.

They did. The man waved them goodbye and kept looking outside the bus, into the sights blurred by speed and bright sunshine. He continued to sing to himself. I continued to admire his indifference.

The sneering ladies got off at the next stop. Now it was only me and the man. Another two stops before the bus reached the terminus. He looked up at me and in a gentle soft voice asked if it would be okay for him to sit on the seat; if I would mind. Mildly stunned for a few seconds, I welcomed him to take a seat. He smiled graciously, took a seat opposite me and went back to staring outside the bus through the window.

Feigned indifference? A want to avoid inconvenience or unnecessary and unwanted attention? Cautiousness to ward off hurtful mud slinging and name-calling? Thoughts rattled in my head as I tried to think of something to say, to ask, to start a conversation. He appeared so consumed in his world, that I did not want to intrude. I got up to leave. The man turned to look at me, curved his lips to give me a smile of friendly gratitude. I returned it with one that said, "you're welcome," and got off the bus.

I wove my way in and out of clusters of people, all the while wondering about the man, the woman inside him he wants to bring out, and the judgmental world he is carefully resisting.