I was about three years old, living in the busy lanes of Ambattur, Chennai, where every street was a story and every smell had its own memory.
Not every day was a shopping day, but on the ones that were, the world felt a little more magical.
Amma would bathe me in the red plastic bucket, the warm water splashing over me as I giggled, still too small to understand the heat. Once I was dry, she’d dress me in my favorite red coloured shirt and matching shorts—bright and cheerful. The next part was always the best: Ponds talcum powder. She’d shake it into her palm, and I’d feel the cool, soft cloud settle on my face, my neck, my arms. I’d wrinkle my nose and sneeze, and Amma would laugh, brushing the extra powder off with her saree.
Then she’d scoop me up, and we’d head out. The day would be hot, but there was something comforting about being in her arms, knowing the world was just a little safer there.
The streets of Ambattur were always alive—bicycles with their clink-clink of bells, tea shops with the smell of vadais frying in hot oil, and fruit vendors calling out their wares. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine flowers being strung into garlands, and the sound of cars, buses, and people blending into a single, familiar hum.
And then, there were the buses. The big, green Pallavan buses. They would rumble down the road, engines growling, windows open, with faces peeking out. Every time one passed, I’d raise my hand and yell, “ Ochario bussu!” without a second thought. And Amma, ever the tease, would laugh and turn to me, asking with a playful smile, “Yaaroda bussu idhu?”
“Whose bus is this?”
I’d puff up proudly, point at the bus, and say, “ Ochario bussu!”
She’d nod, smile and say, “Ochario bussu!”
Yes da, it’s your bus.
My feet would dangle in the air, my rubber chappals swinging loosely as I was carried through the heat of the day. They were always on the verge of falling off, but it didn’t matter—I was floating, like a little king.
Sometimes, if Amma felt like it, we’d stop by the bakery for a snack. A packet of milk bikis biscuits. I’d nibble on them happily, my fingers sticky with biscuit crumbs, while Amma wiped my mouth and brought other things from the bakery. The sun would shine down, but in her arms, I was always cool, safe, and content.
Those trips weren’t every day, but when they happened, they were enough to fill my heart. The red shirt, the dangling chappals, the smell of vadais, the sound of bicycles, and most of all—the laughter of Amma teasing me with her playful question: “Whose bus is this?”
Now, years later, every time I see a green bus, I can still hear her voice:“Yaroda bussu ithu?”
And for a split second, I’m three again, riding through Ambattur in my red shirt, with milk bikis in my hands, feeling like the whole world was mine.
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