The other day I traveled by bus from Thrissur town to the medical college, a distance of 10 km. The bus was smaller than usual, and I noticed a curious thing: every seat on the left side of the bus was reserved for some category or the other. The seats right in the front were of course for "ladies"; the seats just by the front door were for “mothers with babes in arms” (a relatively new category); next were the seats for "senior citizens-women"; then a set of seats for "the blind" (this the first time I've seen this); then the seats for “senior citizens” (presumably only male ones); and last, just over the rear tires, the traditional seats for the “handicapped” (gender not specified). These seats, I have noticed, are invariably cramped for space, the thoughtful providers assuming, no doubt, that those handicapped by missing body parts would need that much less space. Of course, none of the seats were occupied by those they were reserved for; elderly men and women stood, while college boys lounged in the seats. Oh, I couldn't complain; a few months short of my 60th birthday and with no visible handicaps, I knew I had to make do as best I could. So I stood in the aisle, jostled by the bulging backpacks of school students as they excitedly compared their mobile phones. Next year, I consoled myself, I would be eligible for one of the senior citizen seats.
Just before the bus started off an elderly lady boarded it. Gray-haired and with ill-fitting dentures, she wore a starched cotton sari. Not a regular bus commuter, I decided. She had the look of a retired school teacher (principal of a government school perhaps) who was making her monthly visit to town to collect her pension. Anyway, she looked around, all the seats were taken. The seats for senior citizen (ladies) were occupied by two college students, both immersed in their books. Too short to reach the overhead bar, she stood clutching a seat. I could see the stringy sinews of her forearm tighten with each swing of the bus. None of the young women occupying the seats near her got up to offer a seat, and she was too proud to ask. But I was apparently not the only one to notice her. A forty-something man--a Tamil speaking man--sitting with a friend towards the rear of the bus got up, went forward and tapped her on the shoulder, and invited her to come and take his seat. She gratefully accepted the offer. The man, stood in the aisle, and continued his conversation with his friend.
I have been thinking of this on and off since then. Do we really need to label the seats in these town buses (or any bus, for that matter)? Do we really need to read the label to get up and offer a seat to a young mother carrying a baby? Or a blind man? Or an old lady struggling to stand in a moving bus? Even for these short journeys, where we are traveling for 30-40 minutes at the most, why are we so reluctant to extend these little courtesies? Oh, I'm not blaming anyone; I know I have done the same in my time. But the Tamil gentleman in the bus that day shamed me. He did not just get up to offer a seat to someone standing by his side, he took the trouble to get up and go halfway down the bus to invite the lady to come and occupy his seat. I know that I would not have done the same, had I had a seat in the bus. I wish I had this ability to perform such little--instinctive and unselfconscious--acts of kindness.
I was born in Thrissur, the cultural capital of Kerala, the state with the highest literacy level in India, the oldest civilization in the world.
More is expected of me!
