BUS NUMBER 11A came to a halt at the Safire theatre stop, and I plonked myself next to a window in the near-empty bus. A whistle and a singsong "righto" from the conductor flagged us off, and we were soon navigating the sparse afternoon traffic on Mount Road.
I craned my neck to observe the dramatic roadside hoardings, something that I had never before seen in the city where I had spent my childhood-Calcutta. It was a riot of colours, with glitter on the leading lady's eyes, lips, and even blouse. The hero, dressed in a jazzy red suit, towered over everyone else. A few metres away, another hero, wearing a white veshti (dhoti) and a shimmering green shirt, pointed his menacing machete at passersby, giving a 3D effect.
"How on earth can these Tamil movies be so loud?" my inner voice condescendingly called out, reflecting my Calcuttan snobbery. Bengali films, in contrast, were more realistic, with definitely humbler hoardings.
"Ticket, madam," called a voice, distracting me from my thoughts. I smiled at the uniformed man with a pencil moustache, gave him a two-rupee note and stated my stop: T. Nagar bus terminus. He quietly took the money and returned with the ticket. Two stops later, he, along with another uniformed man, got down.
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