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7a.m. at the bus stop.

sometimes its 6.55am, sometimes its 7.05a.m. but time is not the issue here. what matters is the tiny congregation of humanity that stands huddled under a meagre zinc-roofed bus stop every weekday morning. we stand separately but somehow a collective sense of belonging render us as one single unit.

each face occupies space in my memory. we do not smile at each other. rather, we stand together in silence. what is wonderful about the 7a.m bus crowd at that humble bus stop is that there is an air of comforting familiarity among all the commuters. unlike the usual hostile (if not annoying) crowds one usually faces at any other time of the day, the bus crowd I’m in every morning is one big family. everyone smells heavenly, be it Chanel No. 5, Davidoff Cool Water or the usual Dettol. there is little or no change in the gang membership.

what bonds us together is the unspoken consensus that We are the Suckers who have to get out of bed at six in the morning and haul our half-conscious asses to face the smelly world.

the usual suspects include the group of working-class twenty-something yuppies who earn enough to dress to the nines, but not enough to buy a miserable car. my favourite is the Elf Girl, a skinny little miss who consists solely of some obtuse but mostly acute angles, perched precariously on a stunning pair of either gold or red stilletos (she alternates her footwear daily). I like to observe her on the bus. she clings on to the pole for dear life as the bus swerves and veers around road junctions. one day, after a particularly sharp turn, Elf Girl kissed the floor.

then we have the Senior Citizens who usually score the lowest in the fashion category. sedated after some black coffee and kaya toast, they are still reasonably polite (read: they do not shove as hard) and they smell decent. meeting them at 7p.m on the bus is a different story, unfortunately.

lastly we have the students. there is the Bollywood girl who consistently blasts jiggly, upbeat Bollywood songs on her earphones, which is funny considering how stoned everyone looks, including herself. there are three RJC boys who look like they are in perpetual mourning. some miscellaneous characters wearing their school uniforms like pyjamas. one fierce looking girl who looks like a Communist Party escapee.

and a boy who makes my heartbeat accelerate whenever he falls into my field of vision.

he’s not strikingly handsome, but he’s the best pick. whenever he boards the bus, i stare. but he’s so tall he can’t see me. sometimes he walks right past me, sometimes he’s stuck in the first cabin.

with smooth Eurasian looks and a firm, straight posture (i can almost see the six-pack underneath), he’s a feast for my eyes.

but it ends there. despite all the hard praying and finger-crossing, we are forever separated by bodies of different shapes and sizes. i know his face by heart, but he’s not even aware of my existence.

just another perfect being that slides by on the bus-ride of my life.

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