My ears prick as the familiar sound draws closer. It is a low whirring sound. I look up from my laptop as the sound grows louder, crisper. I wait for the familiar thud. At the thud, I smile and get back to my routine, shaking my head and feeling nostalgic. This is the sound of the school bus. The bus I no longer wait for. The bus that used to start my days and the bus that brought us happy smiles, friends and helped us sail through the school years.
I remember the small blue bus that used to pull up at our doorstep. Sid, a chubby three year old, in a yellow T-shirt would hop to the door. He would break into a wide grin upon seeing me. A lady would help my boy get off the bus and hand him his bag with a huge teddy face. Sid never turned around to wave at her. He would instead search my hands to check if the representative from the toy world was with me.
Little Sid back then had a tradition. Every day, in the morning he picked one toy that was exclusive for that day to see him off at the bus stop. He also designated one toy that could accompany me to pick him up. At noon, before the bus would pull over, I would pick up the toy and wait for the little Sid to emerge from the bus and wrap his little arms over me and then ask for his toy.
The toys were his world
They welcomed him, spoke to him, and waved goodbyes to him. I played along. I waited for the bus with steam engines, large teddies, dinosaurs, snakes — everything — much to the amusement of passers-by. I nodded, I shrugged my shoulders and occasionally I explained to strangers that I was waiting for my son holding a creepy rubber tarantula and that I had no other intention.
When Sid grew out of those initial toy stages, I waited for him at the door with nothing but a large smile. He didn’t need any help to get off the bus. He jumped out, waved at his friends, and would smile at me. He would then sit down and regale me with stories of his friends, his school, his ‘bus uncle’, and his teachers. He had a lot to share and laugh about. “Give me food”, he would rub his tummy and plead that I feed him.
I don’t know when it happened but very soon our days would begin with the low hum of the bus. Sid would wait for the bus to turn the corner before he hurried. At that opportune moment, he would reach out for his breakfast and gobble it up. On most days, he would ask me to help him stuff his mouth while he tied his shoelaces. At the familiar thud, he would rush out because the thud of the bus is caused by the road hump in front of the house. He never turned around to wave at us.
When the bus pulled over in the evenings, I would open the door when I heard the thud. Sid would walk in. I don’t know if he jumped out of the bus or if he waved at his friends. He would drop his bag and ask me about food — was it his favourite — he wanted to know before he headed to the shower. Once done, He would sit down and eat staring at some screen.
Today, as I hear the faint screech of the bus somewhere, I don’t remember how the years flew by. It feels like a different lifetime when I clutched a scary-looking T Rex at a bus stop. Now, I continue to wait — at airports, at doorsteps, for phone calls, for the screen to light up with his face. It is what mothers do — wait. Wait for calls, wait for smiles, wait for hugs, waiting for stories. I don’t hold steam engines anymore. Instead, I hold on to memories while I wait.
Sudha Subramanian is an author and writer based in Dubai. Twitter: @sudhasubraman
