Waiting for a Megabus at Victoria station
The clock reads 6.24, and the queue for my bus at platform 11 beckons. I walk forward and into the queue, roughly ten people deep. The conductor checks tickets before allowing people forward to the luggage compartment and then onto the bus. Before me in the line stands an African family, speaking to each other in a mixture of their own native language and heavily accented english. They have a small child with them, cupped in the mother's arms. Grandparents stand at each parents side, they shuffle along and the intensity of their speech seems to be rising as they near the barrier.
"Tickets please?"
"sorry sir - no ticket"
"Tickets please?"
"sorry sir - no ticket. please"
"I need to see a ticket. You can't get on the bus without a ticket"
"sir, please, please. just one time. please sir"
The conductor beckons a manager over.
"It's company policy. You don't have any idea how many people try to get onto our buses for free. We simply can't do it. We need to make money as a company, we can't allow you to do this, I'm very sorry, but people take advantage"
At this point the mother steps forward, child in arms
"Please sir. my baby here. we need to go home. please, just one time"
"I understand and I'm very sorry, but you need to buy a ticket"
"Please sir we need to get home, just one time, please, my baby is tired. Please sir"
The conversation carries in this back and forth manner for a few minutes. And as I stand waiting in the line my mind darts back to a story my Dad once told me. He was only 4 or 5 at the time. His family, my family, had just visited India to see some relatives. Like countless other families during the '50s and '60s, they had cobbled together enough money for a flight from India to England in search of a better life.
To begin with, life in England was the struggle of squeezing four families into one terraced house in Preston, looking for work in biscuit factories and arguments over money and property which put siblings at silence and distance with each other for years. At least they had access to a steady means of income of sorts through industry, and at least, through citizenship, they could benefit from free healthcare and free education for their kids. Money was short, and my some of my Dad's strongest childhood memories are of not being allowed to buy a new pair of shoes and later on, not being able to afford a trip abroad with friends upon leaving school.
The family landed at Heathrow back from India, and caught a taxi back home to Preston. The driver pulled up by the house and charged them £100. My Grandparents spoke little english and held little idea of prices or value in Britain. At this point my Dad tells of his parents panicking, and I can see them shouting at each other in Gujrati, trying to work out what to do.
My Grandma knocked on the door of a nearby neighbour. It was late, past midnight. The neighbour, an Indian as well, had the money saved up inside his house and paid for the taxi on the spot. My Dad doesn't know much else about the story. He's unsure if my Grandparents ever paid the money back, or how they afforded to if they did. But while I stood in that queue at Victoria Station, that memory thundered through my mind. The memory of my late Grandparents, their sacrifice, their suffering, and the unquestioning helping hand in their moment of need.
"Tickets please?"
"sorry sir - no ticket"
"Tickets please?"
"sorry sir - no ticket. please"
"I need to see a ticket. You can't get on the bus without a ticket"
"sir, please, please. just one time. please sir"
The conductor beckons a manager over.
"It's company policy. You don't have any idea how many people try to get onto our buses for free. We simply can't do it. We need to make money as a company, we can't allow you to do this, I'm very sorry, but people take advantage"
At this point the mother steps forward, child in arms
"Please sir. my baby here. we need to go home. please, just one time"
"I understand and I'm very sorry, but you need to buy a ticket"
"Please sir we need to get home, just one time, please, my baby is tired. Please sir"
The conversation carries in this back and forth manner for a few minutes. And as I stand waiting in the line my mind darts back to a story my Dad once told me. He was only 4 or 5 at the time. His family, my family, had just visited India to see some relatives. Like countless other families during the '50s and '60s, they had cobbled together enough money for a flight from India to England in search of a better life.
To begin with, life in England was the struggle of squeezing four families into one terraced house in Preston, looking for work in biscuit factories and arguments over money and property which put siblings at silence and distance with each other for years. At least they had access to a steady means of income of sorts through industry, and at least, through citizenship, they could benefit from free healthcare and free education for their kids. Money was short, and my some of my Dad's strongest childhood memories are of not being allowed to buy a new pair of shoes and later on, not being able to afford a trip abroad with friends upon leaving school.
The family landed at Heathrow back from India, and caught a taxi back home to Preston. The driver pulled up by the house and charged them £100. My Grandparents spoke little english and held little idea of prices or value in Britain. At this point my Dad tells of his parents panicking, and I can see them shouting at each other in Gujrati, trying to work out what to do.
My Grandma knocked on the door of a nearby neighbour. It was late, past midnight. The neighbour, an Indian as well, had the money saved up inside his house and paid for the taxi on the spot. My Dad doesn't know much else about the story. He's unsure if my Grandparents ever paid the money back, or how they afforded to if they did. But while I stood in that queue at Victoria Station, that memory thundered through my mind. The memory of my late Grandparents, their sacrifice, their suffering, and the unquestioning helping hand in their moment of need.
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