My day one in Hyderabad began with a simple plan: take a bus to Secunderabad. I was 16, new to the city, and completely unaware of what an 8 am Hyderabad bus actually meant. The first bus I saw had a capacity of 40 but was carrying 140 people. I thought I’d take the next one. The next one had 300. That bus looked like Allu Arjun in Pushpa, leaning dangerously to one side, sparks flying from the footboard scraping the road, almost as if the bus itself was protesting its working conditions.
Being naive, I asked someone, ‘If so many people use buses, why can’t the government add more?’
They said, ‘We had a few more buses. Someone burnt them.’
‘Who burnt them?’
‘Passengers.’
‘Why?’
‘They were protesting.’
‘What protest?’
‘They wanted more buses.’
That was my introduction to classic Hyderabad logic. Back then, any problem was solved by burning buses. Want a new state? Burn buses. Rowdy-sheeter killed? Burn buses. Politician dies of natural causes? Burn buses anyway. And when no buses were left, people would joke, ‘I’m taking the 11 number bus,’ which simply meant walking.
Even getting inside a bus was another challenge. Hyderabad has something called the ‘running bus’, where the bus never fully stops because the driver thinks he’s late for work. Someone needs to tell him, ‘Sir, this bus is your workplace. You do not have to audition for Fast & Furious.’ Meanwhile, passengers are expected to jump in while it’s still moving. It’s basically a sport. If the Olympics ever introduce ‘boarding a moving bus’, India will win gold every year.
I wasn’t ready to jump onto a moving vehicle without a harness, so I practised on a treadmill. When I finally attempted the real thing, I didn’t get into the bus. I got under it.
The 8 am bus has only two types of passengers: college students and office-goers. Nobody else travels at that hour unless they have a death wish. Inside, it becomes a social experiment. Office-goers stare at students thinking, ‘If I had studied well, I’d be on their side’. Students stare at office-goers thinking, ‘If I don’t study well, I’ll become that uncle sprinting behind the bus with a lunchbox on his back and an office bag strapped to his stomach’.
Inside the bus, the biggest currency is the seat. People reserve seats with handkerchiefs, bags, shawls — anything. One aunt even threw her kid to claim a seat. The kid’s first words were, ‘Seat taken.’ And this obsession never leaves Hyderabadis. When they finally do better and take a flight, you must have seen passengers lose all dignity the moment the plane lands, rushing for their bags because they think the shuttle bus waiting on the runway won’t have enough seats.
What I genuinely loved, though, was the student bus pass. For Rs 230 a month, you could travel anywhere in the city. It was meant for students going to college, coaching centres, and part-time jobs. But I was studying commerce and had discovered the joy of bunking. My bunking budget finished in two days, but the desire stayed. So I used the bus pass to explore Hyderabad instead. If India scored 231, I took bus number 231. If someone’s birthday was on the 14th, I took bus number 14. I travelled from Madhapur to Medchal, Gachibowli to Ghatkesar. Half the time, I didn’t even get down. The bus became my home. Sometimes I would wake the bus driver after lunch and say, ‘It’s 3:15, time to start. Otherwise we won’t reach Madhapur.’
Recently, for nostalgia’s sake, I went to the bus stand and asked, ‘When will the AC bus come?’ Because now I am a grown adult who believes AC is a human right. The enquiry guy looked at me and said, ‘It’s winter. We don’t run AC buses now.’
That’s when I realised it’s far more comfortable to write about Hyderabad buses than to actually get on one again.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)