Roadside Romeo

Every morning sharp at eight, he'd be waiting right opposite the street, under the shade of the neem tree, like a roadside Romeo, cigarette dangling from his lips. I waited right opposite the street, under the bus shelter, to take the company Volvo Bus to my workplace. A daily routine, Mondays through Fridays and his loitering routine likewise, never changed.  

Some days we exchanged glances between the gaps in the moving traffic. I thought he was ogling me, jobless, killing time, waiting to hook up with some passing girl, from a rich family. After all, he was blessed with incredibly good looks, like heroes in Bollywood movies. Slim, tall, with a thick mop of hair, styled trendy Buzz cut, aping John Abraham! Actually thinking of it, he resembled the Bollywood dude to a great extent. Six packs, flat board stomach et al.  

But then roadside Romeos never appealed to me. On the contrary, I abhorred them and was in two minds about reporting him to the police. What stopped me was my own logic. On what grounds? He hadn't accosted me, nor crossed over to introduce himself, nor made any obscene gestures. He was minding his own business and there is no tax payable for looking at someone. I too was guilty in that department. A real dandy looking guy with an impressive walking stick that always rested against the trunk of the neem tree.  

That day the streets were flooded after the overnight cyclonic rain that had stripped the city bare. Uprooted trees, blown away shanties, headless bus stops, just a fraction of what met my eyes. The damage in the low lying areas must have been devastating. An annual monsoon phenomenon. And to add to the woes, the overcast skies were threatening more rain during the day.  

Ganesh the company bus driver had called up to inform he would be waiting on the opposite side of the street, i.e. the side of Romeo's exclusive domain, as my side of the road/bus stand was flooded knee deep. Hitching up my pants with one hand, holding my handbag with the other, laptop backpack firmly strapped on, I managed to cross the street, well in time before the office transport arrived. I won't deny my feelings about meeting face to face with Mr. John Abraham look alike at close quarters. A bit of excitement, a bit of curiosity, and loads of disdain. Of course, I was not going to engage in a conversation. Out of the question. I strictly followed the dictum of never talking to strangers, even if spoken to.

I lowered my eyes when I crossed over. Yes, he was very much there, he and his fancy stick, resting against the Neem tree. The bus screeched to a halt and just before boarding, I noticed to my dismay, a prosthesis for legs sticking out from under the hem of his pants.

That explained it all. Riding on the way to the office, I chided myself for the worst that I was holding against him. Tears welled up, spilling down my cheeks like two perennial streams, more copious than the drizzle that had already commenced.