BUBBA'S BIRTHDAY

I had gone to US with the same expectations as any other Indian. The land of milk and honey. The land of plenty. Where everyone is rich and everyone has got armloads of goodies. Even watching hours of Hollywood kitsch with depictions of gangs...alley fights...thugs and homeless, had not sullied my vision.

And then I reached LA, my college was in Burbank...where all the major studios like Warner Bros. and Universal are and my house was on Melrose Avenue, near Hollywood. So it required me to change 2 buses and walk 15 mins everyday to get around. And sometimes I skipped one bus and it was a 40mins walk home.

Nothing had prepared me for the sight of multitude of homeless people sleeping in parking lots and bus shelters. The narrow jaundiced thinking from which most of us ill informed people suffer from, had conditioned me into believing that these people should be either Blacks or Latinos, definitely less educated and scary. But I was surprised to find that most of them were Whites and I even saw one of them lying on his ragged blanket reading Jane Eyre. Still,I hate to admit that I used to cringe and hold my purse really tightly close to me, while walking past them. Nothing assauged my fears or preconcieved notions.

Until it was Bubba's birthday.

One night I was really late returning from college, past 11pm...I got into this nearly empty bus. It had around 8-9 people in it. And most of them looked, to put it mildly, surviving on the fringes of society. When I entered I felt I had intruded something, all of them seemed to be engaged in this lively conversation with the driver of the bus. After a few moments of being subdued, the chatter was renewed with a gusto.

I sat in a corner observing them all...the filmmaker in me looking at them as potential material for characters or story ideas. I noticed the worn out clothes, the plastic bags which looked distinctly as if they were carrying the entire life and possessions of the owner. Shoes with holes, hair unkempt...faces lined with a deep regret of resignation.

"Honey, I love your shirt".

I looked up, startled at the source of the voice. The kind gentle weather worn face belonged to woman in her late forties, sitting comfortably with her feet up on the seat, her bulging plastic bag, nestled close to her. She looked at home.

She was smiling at me as if making a guest feel comfortable in her home. A generous host.

I mumbled a muffled Thanks.

"Are you from India? I have been to India thrice, lived there for almost 2 years. I did travel a lot back then in '80s."

I tentatively smiled back in response.Though I was intrigued I could not proceed with the conversation.

Next voice, was of the driver."So where did you say you were for past two months, Colorado?"

My smiling host replied," Yeah, I was visiting my son. He insisted Mamma You stay here with me, Mamma don't go. But you know, Charlie I am a big city girl, I had to come back."

"You did good, good to see you again. We missed you", said the kindly driver.

The bus had reached its last stop, where I had to get down, and so did others, as i assumed.

But I realised that i was the only one getting off, rest all continued lounging and chatting with the driver.

And then it hit me. This is where they would spend their night. On this bus. This is what they do every night, and the kind driver lets them, with respect. He did not embarrass the passengers, he didn't call off their bluff about Sons in Colorado. He knew when his regular patrons switched buses for a month or so. And came back with stories how they spent holidays with their loving families, in their warm and welcoming homes.

The driver knew there were no homes and so did I. But I was judgemental and he was not. I had prejudices and he had none. I could not bring myself to make small talk with a lonely women...because of what?

She looked poor?
Her clothes were worn..?

As I walked home, I promised myself that next time when I get on that bus I would smile at all those people. They might have made wrong choices but they were alright as human beings.

Next time came few days later. I got on the bus and their seemed to be a party underway. The same 8-9 people were there, but all wearing little paper birthday hats.
In front sat this really old guy on a wheelchair, with the happiest little grin on his face. He was holding a small bunch of balloons.

All balloons had Birthday messages scribbled on them.

As we rode, I tried to read the messages.

"Happy 75th Birthday"
"You rock"
"Happy Birthday Bubba"

I told myself I have to wish this sweet old guy. And I felt overwhelmed at the kindness of these people. Without homes, shelter or any semblance of normality in their life. Still they made this one little lonely old man so happy. His grip on his balloons was so tight, as if he was holding on to this happiness, this oneness, this camaraderie...as he was trying to hold on to all that he had lost.

I had to wish him. I wanted to be a part of this happiness.

Last stop came...I walked past Bubba, I tried to pause, I tried to say it. But the words just did not come.

I regret it till today.

Well, Happy Birthday Bubba.