A city bus

The other day soon after boarding a bus on Route SD4, a passenger was struck by the ticket she was handed by the conductor. It carried a pretty young face, and next to it was a phone number. Puzzled, she turned the ticket around. The other side guaranteed a free laptop.

Intrigued, she looked hard and to her relief found what she was looking for on a narrow corner — 4.00 — the figure in rupees she had paid as fare. The route and licence number of the bus too had a marginal presence. This was a far cry from the white strips of typed sheets that are customarily in use as tickets.

This clever bus owner had obviously discovered the virtues of selling space. Both sides of the narrow humble strip sung paeans to a private management institute. The laptop was the prize for investing in a fulltime MBA programme.

Even the ticket itself entitled one to a “free career enhancement session”. Impressed, the girl looked up and above the opposite seats found a writing on the wall with a difference. In place of the usual wisdoms imparted to a passenger, like “Pocketmaar hoite sabdhan (Beware of pickpockets)”, Maal nijo dwayitwe rakhiben (Keep your luggage in your own care)” and “100, 50 takar khuchra hoibe na (No change for Rs 100 and 50)”, there it was, written in a bold hand — Siksha achhey, byabohar nai/ Shei shikshar mukhe chhai (Two hoots for an education which has no utility).

Talk about synergy, between the bus, the ticket and education.

Loo and behold

Loo and behold! And hold it back, if you can, till home or hotel. This is what every woman mutters to herself when she steps into the ladies’ restroom at Calcutta airport. This door is what welcomes many of them into the city as it is located right next to the arrival space. The floor is invariably wet and the only place to land one’s luggage is a raised wooden structure that must have been born as a dressing table as it is attached to a mirror which lost the power to reflect the prettiest of ’em all many springs ago.

There are three cubicles to choose from. Two are mostly empty. The reason is that long after Bengal’s Communist government started wooing capital from the West, its capital’s airport has remained “Indian style” in a certain part. But lightskinned “memsahibs”, as well as Indian women, all beat a hasty retreat on taking a peek at the “Indian style” contrivances on the floor of the two cubicles and queue up in front of the third.

There are no signs of tissues. We are into paper conservation perhaps. Towels are beyond our budget. Can the airport manager take a genderbending peep inside?