What follows is not a template for your average porn site. Neither is it a Ballardian universe prototype.Ass to ass. Crotch to ass. Ass to crotch. Sweaty armpits. Fondling. Gymnastic. Sweaty. Orgy. Foot fetish. Flatulence fetish. Motion fetish. Grime fetish. Sitting. Standing. Public. Humiliation. Ass spanking. Voyeuristic. Young. Old. Blind. Bald. Spectacled and nobody cares. It’s a homosexual paradise. Men for men and women for women. Oily. Cramped for breathing space. Cramped for a field of vision. Cramped for your hair to fit in. All at 50 kilometres per hour. This is your local bus. Welcome aboard.

The guy who was wearing the faded chequered shirt looked like he needed decontamination for human smut, for his skin stank of sweat pooled from some four days ago. The clothes cried for detergent. He was unforgiving; he caught the hanging rail right before my nose. Armpits level my nostrils. The disadvantages of being tall. And there was another, and then another. Gas chambers of urban stench, concentrated than orange syrup. My field of vision was restricted to a few strands of oily hair which poked right before my eyes. I couldn’t even get a look at this guy’s pants. A push from behind and my crotch pops straight into the guy who’s sitting on the seat next to where I was standing. The number of seats under my field of vision: 2. Accurate number: 60. Estimated occupants of the bus: 120. I wasn’t standing anymore. That couldn’t be called as a legitimate ballet move but I was somewhere close by. Two hands in the air, bent backwards, holding those blackened yellow handles dangling from the rails in the roof. Chest protruding forward and my posterior nudged in the exact opposite direction. Sinusoidal. That guy was stamping my foot way too hard. I saw a girl somewhere ahead, and she looked like the kind of girl you’d expect to fart. Not a good sign. There were white collared workers, blue collared workers, students, professors, managers and scavengers. And all of them choking and coughing as some sudden illness took over them, a spring mechanism that shot saliva particulates into the immediate surroundings. Someone stuck his finger into his nose. And the same someone held the handle from the ceiling with the same fingers. Two minutes later someone else was holding it. Did someone belch on my ear lobe? Where do I move? If I move anymore I’d be out of the fucking bus. Taking stock of the situation at hand I sneezed too. And in the violent haste that preceded the sneeze, I couldn’t find my own legs – the one’s I touched were someone else’s. I didn’t want to wipe it off to my freshly ironed shirt. No, not even to the shirt of the guy standing next to me – he was busy stamping my leg anyway. I was thinking about it for long enough to forget about it and the next thing I remember, I was holding the handle and I don’t remember which hand I sneezed onto. Someone could’ve just peed before they got onto the bus. Someone must’ve run out of toilet paper. Someone must’ve put his hand inside hit mouth to check his cavity. Is the original color of the railing hanging from the ceiling yellow? Are those handles really yellow? Or does it signify the acute draught of toilet paper and handwash? I didn’t hold the handle for the rest of my journey – I was soldered real tight in the company of men.

There were these hideous looking men who I didn’t want to look at. Hideous looking men besides whom I didn’t want to stand. Not because I was being biased, but because they looked like disease transmitting parasites mutated in form to form a cheap looking replica of a human. The myths of some stick HIV infected syringes up the ass did have a base indeed. Those sweat pores looks wide enough to stick a pencil through and bodies which looked like portable human fluid dispensers. The bus itself looked like a mass incubator of tropical diseases. I touch somebody’s belly. He must have his liver removed out and the sutures might not have healed yet. He could have gangrene. I now have gangrene. That guy with a psoriasis patch. Psoriasis isn’t communicable – but its nausea inducing capacity is. The bus was a vessel designed by the government to be a messiah of the apocalypse. More people catch diseases and more people die. More people are admitted to hospitals which are state owned which means more money in the coffers for the state. More people dying translates to more jobs left vacant, and the developmental increase will be phenomenal. No more people in buses and public transport. Increased per capita income, increased GDP and increased consumption. Lesser poverty and lesser state liability through funds and government schemes. More money in the state translates to lesser taxes and lesser taxes translates to richer people. The bus shelters can be razed down and so can the slums. Alien city skyscrapers. Infinitoplex. Shopping districts stretch across the city limits. Freer roads and less polluted traffic signals. No more delays because of the buses and public transport. Punctuality and order dawn upon the state. More productivity, more efficiency. Welcome to utopia. No more poverty – so the end of Socialism. No one to control over – no more Fascism. Everyone loves their state – say bye to Nationalism. You can’t go home and fuck after a ride in this machines. Your wives won’t touch you either. The money in your sweat drenched pockets won’t be accepted by your children who will not have any girls to fuck in turn. No more subsidies on condoms. No more family planning. These fucking buses are here to kill us. We’re culture excreting and breathing in the same cess pool. We’re held here for life.

No wonder why no lone gunner shoots down people in these buses and public transport systems. Because there’s no fucking room! This is a tactical nightmare and this mass murderer is pitiful and envious at the greater levels of mass murder taking place in these buses all day and night, come rain or atomic bombing in Leyland, Tata and thereafter. This man doesn’t want to kill the killed. This man is God fearing and dead loving. This man is our angel. He’s the propagandist of the impending apocalypse. This man is revered. He won’t kill us. We feel safe – the soiled hands are any day better than bullets in copper cladding. I would take shit for a meal than lead.

These are portable gas chambers. Looks like everyone’s sad and dying in the bus. No one smiles. Someone tore apart their ticket and put those paper strands on the ticket checker’s head. She looked like an ageing princess of an asylum for the venerably deranged. Puppet princess of the paupers. Nobody looked at us. Even the tramps at the intersections didn’t look us in the eye. Nobody asked us for alms. The towers shed their pitiful lights on us. The neon signs laughed and blinked wildly at our incapability to read them, there were no ads tailor made for us. I felt sad.

I had my shower for the day; the germs were getting onto me. I had an urge to scratch at the unlikeliest of places. I moved through the stash of shrapnel inside the bus – we were ready to explode. I kissed someone’s eyeball. My tongue felt oozy. The stop came by - we flew out in our own directions, inconsiderate about the diseased aura we carried around us. We did what shrapnel’s supposed to do, maximise impact. We went to our homes, we hugged our wives and kids and they all have the aura now. Little doses of the lethal medicine – little steps towards the advertorial utopia. Join a plan in our hospital. Invest in our monthly fund and we wait till you die peacefully.


We went out and I breathed air for the first time in the last thirty minutes. Previously I was living on lice and someone else’s dandruff.

Wait, we all like a happy ending.
I got out of the bus.

We want something happier still.
I walked ahead to see another bus in the same route half as full. A minute later another bus which running empty. And then another. Selective decimation, matters of destiny which was only fucked by a little greed for time.