It was late evening sometime January when I hopped on a 711 [Dhaula Koan- Sarai Kale Khan] on the inner ring road to go home. The bus was crammed with tired looking office crowd. Women in crumlped cotton Sarees or Salwar Kameez, men in plain shirts and pants. Carrying Steel Tiffin boxes, office files, cheap Chinese hand held FM radios or polyethylene packets. All the seats were taken and the aisle was also nearly packed. Holding on to the overhead iron rod I jostled my way up to an empty space in the aisle.

The bus lurched ahead. Traveling in a Delhi bus sometimes offers a study in contrast. To the mad rush of traffic outside, the ceaseless honking of horns, the shrill calls by the bus conductors with their ritual of shouting the itinerary or the bus route while thumping the bare metal sheet outside the window producing an incessantly irritating clanging sound, the inside of the bus is calm and quite. In this city of strangers it is not quite often that you would find two people speaking to each other in a bus. As I looked around I only saw faces. Some faces were looking out of the window, some staring straight ahead as if eying nothingness, some faces had their eyes closed and head slumped to a shoulder, and some like mine were looking at other faces.

At the next stop the bus screeched to a halt, as buses usually do. The impact of the hydraulic brakes locking the wheels infused life into bus. The conductor started his ritualistic shouting a few faces anxiously looked at the stop, a man standing in front yelled at his mates at the back, to check whether this is the stand where they must get down. There was a rush of feet, followed by jostling and heated arguments as some more faces got up on the crammed bus. Among them was a bearded middle-aged man, about five and a half feet tall, of wheatish complexion, straight back hair, black eyes, broad fore head, thin bony frame and a ring on his left index finger. He was wearing a checkered shirt with brown pants. There was something strange about his beard that made me look at him more closely. I was soon to find out. The conductor slammed the metal sheet four times signaling the driver to go. The bus went on and everything inside the bus was quite again.

The man positioned himself just behind the driver's seat right in front of the everyone else and sized up his audience. Bhaion Aur Baheon!, Brothers and Sisters he shouted, catching everyone's attention and with that his beard and moustache started shifting alternatively. With one hand he did something to his beard and moustache that made them leave his face for a second and come back to its position again. It was funny to look at him. Dadi aur Mooch bachhon aur badon ke liye- sirf paanch rupayee- paanch rupayee, Beards and Moustaches for kids and elders only for five rupees. What looked like a collage student, standing beside me, took a piece and attached it to his clean-shaven youthful face. He then turned around to show it to his friends. One of them giggled loudly - you looking like a terrorist take it off;- he took it off but bought a piece anyways.

The man with the fake moustache and beard came near me and from his bag took out five pieces neatly wrapped in polyethylene bags. You want one, Sir?, he asked.

The man was from Bijnore, a small town; just four hours drive from Delhi. He learned the craft of making beards from Benaras. Everyday he gets up at four am in the morning and makes forty pairs of beards and moustaches and sells them for five rupees each. Mostly children buy them to play terrorist-terrorist.

Why do you think they sell? I asked casually while paying for the piece. To which he casually replied - Dar ka market hai bahiyya, fear has a market, brother.