The Mystery of the Silent Bus
There are things they do not tell
you when you move to Finland. They will tell you about the cold as if you won’t
or don’t feel it yourself, they will talk about the darkness as if it doesn’t
swallow you whole, and they will even tell you like warning you about the
language as if your tongue won’t twist itself into unimaginable shapes trying
to say “Hyvää päivää”. But there is no one absolutely when I mean no one warns
you about the eerie, almost sacred silence of the Finnish bus.
I remember my first time stepping
onto a bus in Finland. I greeted the driver with my best foreigner’s
enthusiasm, a warm “hyvää huomenta!” which means good morning; thinking I was
doing the right thing. The driver looked at me as if I had just confessed to a
crime. He barely nodded, his face betraying no emotion, and I quickly shuffled
away, feeling like I had broken some ancient Nordic code.
Then, I noticed it. Silence.
Complete, unbroken, profound silence.
The kind of silence that makes
you hear your own breathing, your own heartbeat, your own thoughts screaming,
“Why is nobody talking?!” I kept wondering why it is so quiet.
Coming from a culture where buses
are moving marketplaces where hawkers, preachers, gossipers, and self-appointed
DJs create a symphony of everyday life, the silence felt like an unnatural
forcefield. I clutched my phone tightly, afraid that even the sound of a
message notification would make me the villain of the entire vehicle.
As I sat down, I glanced around
at my fellow passengers. Each person was in their own world, gazing out the
window, plugged into their headphones, or simply staring ahead in quiet
contemplation. No side conversations, no sudden outbursts, not even a polite
clearing of the throat. Even friends who boarded together would exchange a nod
and then fall into the unspoken rule of silence. It was as if talking on a bus
was a crime punishable by the law.
At one point, my phone rang. I
felt my body start to freeze. The heads turned, ever so slightly. The side-eyes
were discreet, but they carried weight. I scrambled to silence the phone,
fumbling like I was defusing a bomb; the phone call was left unanswered. My
heartbeat took longer than usual to return to its usual rhythm. I had committed
the ultimate sin.
Over time, I learned the rules of
the silent bus. I became fluent in the art of non-verbal communication eye
contact means nothing, a small nod is a grand gesture, and sitting next to
someone when there are other empty seats is a declaration of war. I mastered
the delicate balance of silence, the unwritten agreement that we would all
exist together but separately, until our destinations pulled us apart.
Now, I find the silent bus
comforting. It is a moment of peace in an otherwise chaotic world. It is an
unwritten contract of respect. But every now and then, the old me resurfaces the
one who wants to chat, to laugh, to share a random observation with a stranger.
I imagine what would happen if I started a conversation, if I just turned to
the person next to me and said, “Nice weather today, huh?”
But then, I remember. This is
Finland. And the bus must remain silent.
I once witnessed an exception to
the rule. A small child, too young to understand the sacredness of the silence,
began singing softly to themselves. Their mother, looking mildly alarmed,
gently hushed them. But for a moment, the bus was filled with an almost magical
sound a child’s voice, innocent and unfiltered, daring to break the norm. Some
passengers smiled to themselves, others pretended not to notice. And then, as
quickly as it had come, the silence returned, swallowing the moment whole.
It made me wonder: is the silence
really a rule, or just a habit so deeply embedded in daily life that few dare
to question it? Perhaps, one day, someone will dare to start a conversation,
and the world will not end. But until then, we sit in our quiet agreement, our
unspoken bond of stillness, together yet far apart.