Leave me alone to daydream on the bus

The Electric New Paper :

Leave me alone to daydream on the bus

I DO not want to drive. To me that would represent the sacrifice of my daily dose of Ratna-time.

By Ratna Tiwary

03 March 2007

I DO not want to drive. To me that would represent the sacrifice of my daily dose of Ratna-time.

I take the bus to work and school every day and back home again at the end of a hectic day. I refuse to study in the bus (unless there is an exam that day), I seldom entertain phone calls and text messages, and I detest making inane small talk with acquaintances while travelling.

The moments I spend in the bus each day have become a refuge.

It is almost the only time in my crowded day when I do not have anything to do. I can daydream, think about articles for the next month and make plans for my dream home/wedding/career/novel.

I can peer at clouds from my seat and imagine unicorns dancing to La Bamba. My time in the bus is a time to reminisce, think about old friends and remember silly incidents as landmarks whizz by.

I pass my old school daily on my way to work, and every day, fresh memories are triggered that make me chuckle to myself. It starts my day off on a beautiful note.

Spotting the walkway leading up to school, I remember how my best friends and I did a Chinese-soldier march up the slope while singing 'wo men shi nian qing de wei guo jun' (we are the young patriotic soldiers).

Just imagine three giggly girls in pink tops and grey skirts playing soldier. As I pass the canteen, I nearly fall off the bus seat with barely-contained laughter, recalling how we used to buy beautiful birthday cakes for friends, only to smash them into their faces and then chase and be chased by them around the school grounds.

My time on the bus is a time for me to imagine. Sitting on the blue seats of the usually non-airconditioned bus service 93 every morning, feeling the cool morning air hitting my face and tousling my hair, I mentally sketch my dream home.

I'd love a balcony that allows me to enjoy the same fresh breeze every morning, preferably leading from my bedroom so that I can wake up to fresh air and singing birds.

As cars pass by, I dissect each of them and put them back together to build my dream car. The curves of the VW Beetle, with the gorgeous square headlights of old Mercedes-Benzes, the engine of a zippy little Ferrari and, hopefully, the price tag of the Chery QQ .

As I see the familiar face of a little girl on the bus each morning and smile at her, I imagine a little girl with my hair, nose, eyes, height, intelligence, and well, something from her father too. But that's a different dream (tall, fair, handsome, rich...).

When we turned 18, all my friends rushed to register for the theory of driving tests, all eagerly waiting to drive.

I tagged along andpassed both the Basic and Final theory tests, but driving lessons annoyed me. I had to focus on the car, I was responsible for all those people passing me, driving behind me, crossing the road before me, at traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, everywhere.

I could no longer dream and imagine and reminisce while the world passed me by and the breeze ruffled my hair.

Eventually, I stopped the lessons because those moments of freedom in the bus were just too vital to me. The euphoria they bring and the sheer joy I feel are too important to sacrifice.

Perhaps in a different place and time, I too will see a need to drive - to ferry my children to school, my husband to work, myself to the mall.

Perhaps then I may treasure the gurgling laughter of my children and their endless questions, the scent of my husband's cologne in the car and the thrill of my own driving, more than I treasure my freedom in the bus today.

In the meantime, however, if you see me in the bus, please smile, but then leave me to my dreams and memories.

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The writer is a graduate in political science and South Asian studies from NUS. To give feedback, e-mail tnp@sph.com.sg.