The Wait

Wake up. Phone clock shows 4:57 AM. What the hell is the phone doing ringing? Oh yea..... got a bus to catch.
I had this basketball match to attend the other day. Due to the match being scheduled for the first slot of the day, and because of the college organising the tournament being situated somewhere in Uttaranchal, I was asked to board said college's bus, to save myself the trouble of arranging transport all the way there. I was told to be present at the bus stop at 6:10 'to be safe, just in case'. As you can see, it is not the most normal kind of timing for a college bus, being a mite on the earlier side.
I ask to drive until the bus stop, and my dad obliges. I kinda hoped the early-morning drive would get my senses up and running.
It didnt.
I stood at what I thought was an agreeable place for an early morning bus to stop on that road, and pretended to be awake and aware of my surroundings. The tea kadais were open and bustling with activity. There were loads of early-morning CA students walking briskly past me. I was secretly jealous.
Bus after PTC bus went past me on the road.
Let me attempt to put in words, the rock-n-roll technicolour superfest that is the arrival and exit of a PTC of a popular route number at a bus stop.
You always hear them before you see them. Ok, in this case, my eyes were half closed, but nevertheless, at least in most cases, you do. And the first sounds of them you hear are a series of gut-wrenching clunks of varying volumes and durations. These sounds emanate from a plethora of areas on the bus, right from their over-used, and highly-abused transmission systems, their taxed suspension systems, the various bits and pieces of other components flying about the innards of the vehicle in a frenzy, and not to mention various interior pieces, like, for example, the metal shutter blinds hitting against the walls festooned with "anbukumaran is akust".
You can tell the frequent bus travellers from the normal ones, when observing your fellow bus-stop occupants. Upon hearing these distant noises, their ears perk up, and their bodies tense up in expectation. Could this be the one?
Then the bus comes into vision, groaning towards you, canted gruesomely to one side, its headlights feebly attempting to illuminate at least one foot of air in front of them. The driver has his arms spread out, clutching the massive wheel, and constantly correcting course even in a straight line. He looks understandably cross.
Everyone in the bus stop has begun craning their necks by now. Most look, then sigh, and get back to waiting. Some look, then go imperceptibly on tiptoe to see if it really is THE bus, and then stride forward expectantly.
And then, when the bus is about a hundred metres away, the sound of the brakes begins. A high-pitched screech that vibrates tooth fillings, and gives you a strange ringing sensation in your head. About half an hour later, the behemoth has finally been brought to a stop by the brakes. It is a wonder they can combat such a high momentum.
You then hear shuffling of multiple pairs of feet, and watch in wonder as, somehow, people manage to get into the bus as, simultaneously, other people get out through the same doorway. It is one of the great mysteries of the world.
A few seconds later, yet another sickening grunch ensues from the bus as the first gear is engaged, just after the shrill whistle of the conductor, and, before you know it, the bus is gone.

One might think that I must be a very sad person to be brought down to the level of observing, in such minute detail, such a mundane event such as a mode of public transport going about its daily rounds, but that, my friends, is one of the side effects of an early morning bus stop wait for a bus you are not even sure will come.
The other effect is rather more irritating. The mosquitoes.
Early morning mosquitoes are very different from night mosquitoes. And mosquitoes outside sanskrit college on an early morning are serious. They dont play catch-me-if-you-can games, like the good old domesticated house mosquitoes. These are a battle-trained mutated super-species, and they do not waste time flying about, waiting to be swatted. They scoff at the solo-flying, risky, and childish antics of their sissy indoor cousins. They believe in organized biting, and have perfected this mode of attack to an extraordinary level.
It is sad that most of their attack moves are performed in the darkness of the early morning, when they cannot be seen, or enjoyed by a third person. And it is sad for the victim of their biting efforts, for their biting efforts are supremely succesful, and, hence, supremely painful for the bitten.
I was such a victim, my friends. And I sit here, documenting this harrowing experience, only because I was saved by the timely arrival of the required bus just before my certain demise.

You can wave your arms and legs about in all directions. It is completely futile. They anticipate every single movement of your limbs, and move their positions accordingly. They have got it all mapped out. The traditional open-palmed straight swing, the clap, the back-handed slash, the half turn, the fake and full turn, the slow-to-fast googly swat, all of it. Every single mosquito-squashing move in our repertoire has been studied, and moves designed to capitalise on each of their weaknesses. You can walk about. Another squadron of stealth-quitoes will be waiting, wherever you step within a hundred-foot radius.
Therefore, if you get out of the attack alive, you would have looked stupid all the while you were under it, and you will be covered in bites after it.

The cursed vehicle arrives at 6:40. I was duped. Ths sun has half-risen by now, and the super mutated stealth-quitoes have returned to their bases, their tanks full with my blood. A resounding victory for them, and quite a taxing beginning for a day for me.