Of museums and museum lovers

I spent today living, breathing, talking history. Running my hands over intricate stone carvings from the Assyrian period, I took in their cold, lifeless form. I couldnt help but shudder as I witnessed a seemingly inanimate Greek centaur come to life as he trampled a falling youth, gripping his victim by the hair, preparing to strike the fatal blow. I walked amongst age-old mummies; silent yet ever watchful. Peering through their kohl-lined eyes they gazed at me, challenging me to dare unravel the mysteries they hold. As I stood, dwarfed, surrounded by this magnificence and in a way, immortality, a long lost memory wormed its way back into my mind.
Packed like sardines we would shuffle back and forth from school in our beloved, ancient "van". With thick red and white stripes running along its sides, the vehicle looked much like a plump ladybug as it huffed and puffed along Karachi's hot, dusty(bumpy) roads.The van-walay-uncle, (I found out years later that his name was Moin) was equally ancient - a face burnt with wisdom(and the sun), eyes sunk beyond  view behind a pair of perfectly round spectacles, and the most endearing smile I have ever seen. He was a man of principles. Every morning he would honk thrice outside each girl's house. If you were'nt on the bus by the 3rd honk, he'd zoom past you, leaving you standing in a cloud of smoke and remorse. On some particularly hot, humid afternoons he would treat us to a "thandi botul" from the school's canteen and one packet of "chiplings". But we were sworn to secrecy, the nuns were not to hear about this, or he would be sacked. The occasional treat was too precious for us to ever break our promise.
The van-world is an evil world  of bullies and tormentors. If you have connections with the right people, you survive(read: get the best seat or any seat for that matter). If you don't, and to make matters worse, you are also the nerdy, geeky sort, well then God help you. I, unfortunately, fell in the latter category. Oft I would be forced to stand clutching my sole companion - a rusty rod-whilst simultaneously trying my best not to tread on anybodys foot and balancing a 10kg bag on one shoulder. It was on such occassions that my van-walay-uncle would come to my rescue. He would offer me the only seat which was left vacant by the entire bully association. It was a seat placed on the bus' engine. For obvious reasons this particular seat was forever boiling (to say the least!)
The last time Moin uncle drove us back home, I had been sitting on my bag placed conveniently on that seat
( I couldnt allow myself to be roasted to death!) I was very excited that day, I'd scored the highest marks in a history test (Erm...I did mention that I was a nerd) and I told him. He smiled and said "Shabash" and then he said that he dreamt that one day he would go to a "mujeum" in "lundun". He really wanted to see the Koh-e-Noor diamond. I was taken aback by what he said. You don't expect bus drivers to know what and where the Koh-e-Noor is or more importantly express a desire to go to a museum and that too in London. I smiled not knowing what to say. That was the last time I saw him. He suffered a heart attack later that day and passed away after a week. He never got to see the koh-i-noor. He never came to London.
As I sat with Zoran in the food court at the museum today, I wept. Discreetly ofcourse.But I wept. Guess the dorkiness still hasnt left me.