Essay on Waiting for a Bus in Summer

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It is the month of June. Sun shines brightly and the earth is burning like a furnace. Birds seek the shady cover of the leaves and animals take rest by the side of the river. But men of the age of science is standing in a queue waiting for a bus Some wipe their perspiration, others cover their heads with handkerchief, still others protect their faces with a newspaper. But all the eyes are riveted on the right side. Some complain against the government, others look vacantly here and there, some take glasses of water, others smoke out their time.

The greatest sufferers are the fashionable ladies and the fat persons. The drops of perspiration coursing downs the painted face make it like a badly traced map of India. Their tight shirts and nylon pants make them uneasy. The foul smell of the sweaty body defeats the purpose of the costly scent. Their puffed up hair seem to catch the heat of sun just as the aerial catch the sound waves. They lose their charms every minute ; the young seem to be rolling into old age with their withered and patchy faces. Similarly fat persons feel uncomfortable.

Their legs refuse to support their huge mass. But their sense of decorum does not allow them to squat on the ground. Once a fat lady with an air of frankness said, “Oh, God do not punish your favorites—i e., fat people because God has blessed them with more flesh with hot sun over head and burning ground underneath and small space to stand”. Pat came the reply from another side,’ Madam, God has sent you to provide shade to so many”. These isolated witty remarks make them to forget the scorching heat.

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The bald-headed people curse their fate. Their head shines like a glass and if it is oily it may dazzle the eyes of the taller ones. How jealous do they become of the head with a good crop of hairs. This direct transmission of heat to their brain makes them to complain more loudly against the authorities.

As the bus approaches, there is a stir in the queue. Hand­kerchiefs covering heads are put in pockets, newspapers protecting faces are folded, whispers of complains are suspended and a gleam appears in the eyes. A few persons with their drenched backs and sweaty faces get down. The sweating conductor has lost patience. There goes the whistle and so goes the bus. Angry shouts and loud complaints seem to be nothing more than an outlet for heat of sun stored up in the brains of the standing persons.

Waiting for a bus is irritating for an office goer, it is a punish­ment for a car-owner and a problem for a child-bearing mother. The heat of the summer sun adds to the misery and mental torture. One feels if there is hell upon earth it is at the bus-stop.

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