The Day My London Bus Had an Emotional Breakdown

(And Other Transport Tales)

Let me tell you a London truth: you haven’t really lived here until a bus you were on has suddenly decided it doesn’t want to be a bus anymore.

The sign lights up: ‘This bus terminates here’

No warning, no explanation. Just a very British act of quiet resignation. Like the bus had an emotional breakdown mid-route, whispered “I can’t anymore” to itself, and checked out of the system.

Cue twelve confused passengers standing in the drizzle, collectively staring at a vehicle that’s just retired early — probably to pursue watercolour painting or therapy. I look at the sky (grey, obviously), then at my phone, which optimistically suggests there is another bus ‘in 4 minutes.’ Of course, it's lying. Again.

Welcome to London’s transport system: a marvel of design, obsessed with punctuality, easily bruised by a single drop of rain.

London: Timetables and Tragedies

On a good day, it’s glorious. Trains that glide in with robotic precision. Digital maps that update in real time. Announcements you can actually hear — and (eventually) understand, if you’ve trained your ear to the language of platform mumble.

But the entire system seems to operate on the fragile faith that the universe will behave. A little rain? The world wobbles. Leaves on the track? Mayhem. ‘Signal failure near Brighton’? Cancel your optimism. The train you’re depending on has either vanished into another dimension or become inexplicably delayed by exactly 17 minutes.

There are days I leave home a full hour early for a 20-minute commute. Just in case. I’ve become one of those people who check the TfL Go App like it’s a weather app. And despite all that, I’ve still arrived late - breathless, mascara-smudged, and furiously apologising in front of colleagues who respond with solemn nods and murmur “Ah yes, District line delays.”

But what fascinates me most isn’t the chaos — it’s how calmly people take it. No one yells. No one questions why a tube simply stops in the tunnel and rests there like it’s meditating. We all just... accept it. Eyes glazed, headphones in, emotionally detached.

It’s not that there’s no rage. It’s just all internalised. Deep breaths, clenched jaws. Maybe an extra biscuit at tea time.

Mumbai: Chaos That Refuses to Quit

Now let me take you back to Mumbai. Yes, we have digital signboards now. Announcements in three languages. Even a sleek, air-conditioned Mumbai Metro that could hold its own against any modern city. But the soul of Mumbai’s transport system still beats in the older local trains — where technology exists, but isn’t the main character.

The Mumbai local isn’t just a mode of transport. It’s an endurance sport. It’s sweaty, loud, wildly overcrowded — and yet, impressively reliable. Trains arrive on time more often than not, even during torrential downpours that would paralyse most cities. Doors stay open not because they’re broken, but because closing them would deny five more people the chance to cling on.

It’s not a romantic chaos — it’s just how the city moves. Because in a place where millions depend on the same few lines to get to work, to school, to life — the system adapts. You squeeze in. You make space. You move because you have to, not because it's poetic.

It’s also a space of strange intimacy. You share sweat, space, sometimes stories. A stranger’s child falls asleep on your lap. Someone passes you their tiffin because there’s no place to hold it. You help an elderly man get off at the right stop, and he calls you beta like you’ve just joined the family.

Here in London, we ride in elegant silence. No eye contact. Maximum distance. On a Mumbai train, if someone isn’t leaning on you by the third stop, you start to worry something’s wrong.

Driving in Mumbai: Life Lessons Learnt

Before moving to London I spent years driving the kids to school in Mumbai. And the roads — oh, the roads. Or rather, the craters with personality. Mumbai potholes aren’t just bumps. They’re urban legends. Some of them could qualify as minor canyons. I knew them by name. I had favourites. I once found a lost toy dinosaur in one, I swear.

And don’t even get me started on the two-wheelers. They come from all directions — like locusts, if locusts had horns and absolutely no respect for physics or personal safety. Helmets are optional. Mirror checks? A myth. I once saw a guy steering with one hand, eating vada pav with the other, and balancing a plant pot between his knees.

Those school drop mornings taught me many things:
– How to curse under my breath fluently in three languages
– How to drive with one eye on the road and one eye on a toddler mid-meltdown
– How to survive near-death experiences without spilling my coffee

Traffic lights? More like colourful street decor. Red means “pause and consider,” yellow means “accelerate,” and green means “everyone for themselves.” And yet, somehow, we’d survive. We all would. Because in Mumbai, survival is a group sport.

Two-Wheelers: Death Machines with Horns

Let’s linger a moment longer on the Mumbai two-wheeler situation — because no comparison between London and Mumbai transport is complete without them.

In London, cyclists have lanes. Helmets. Reflective jackets. Sometimes even actual fear of traffic laws.

In Mumbai? Two-wheeler riders laugh in the face of logic. They weave, duck, dash, and occasionally fly. I’ve seen them balance entire families — child, dog, gas cylinder — all on one scooter. No helmets. No seatbelts. Just vibes.

You can be standing on the pavement — the actual pavement — and still not be safe from a rogue scooter attempting a shortcut through your personal space.

And the horn. Oh, the horn. It’s not a warning — it’s a language. It says:

– “I’m here.”

– “I’m behind you.”

– “I’m angry.”

– “Move.”

– “Why are you not moving?”

– “I have no intention of slowing down.”

– “Namaste.”

Back in London: Efficient, Polite, Slightly Soul-Crushing

These days, I ride quiet buses and watch people apologise to the driver for pressing the stop button too late. The London Underground is a marvel. Clean, efficient, wonderfully mapped.

But something about it still makes me feel slightly… robotic. Earphones in. Eyes down. Nobody talks. Nobody sings (unless drunk). Nobody even glares at delays with the same passion we do back home.

Where’s the woman complaining loudly on the phone about her son’s marriage prospects? Where’s the uncle offering free medical advice to strangers with sore throats? Where’s the unasked-for samosa being passed down the row with a casual “try this”?

Here, you sit. Quiet. Alone with your thoughts. Or a podcast about productivity.

Between the Stops, Between the Worlds

Now I live between these two systems — two cities with completely different relationships to motion.

Mumbai taught me resilience. London teaches me patience. In Mumbai, you survive the commute. In London, you endure it. In Mumbai, transport is unpredictable but relentless. In London, it’s predictable — until it isn’t.