The Woman who Criticised

“'Oh no, look at the woman on the bus stop!
She surely must be leading a bad life!
I don't like her face at all!'”

It seemed to amuse her,
Or so it felt to me,
Listening to those periodic snorts,
Brief, sharp pulses of hilarity,
Coming out of her,
Making her back arch slightly each time,
As if minor tremors
Were shaking her edifice,
As if what she had just said
Was the very height of wit.

“'That man, THAT man, doh, who's standing at the bus stop!
He used to live in my neighbourhood.
Has a bad character, he has!
I hope he doesn't sit next to us!'”

And so it went on.
All I could see of her face,
Were the sides,
As sharp and razor thin
As her own tongue;
That very same tongue,
Which often lashed out;
A living whip,
At all she could see
Through the glass.
No plump cheeks on this one;
All signs of hilarity
Seemingly syphoned off,
And replaced by a perpetual lemon
(or so it seemed)
Around disapproving thin lips.

“'Why can't people look
After their kids
While walking on the streets?
So irresponsible! Bad parents!'”

And so it went on.
That tongue of hers,
Produced a voice more like
The sound of gravel being trodden,
Than a real voice:
The milk of human kindness
A long time drained off,
Her face, a wasteland in drought season.
What struck me,
Almost as soon as I sat down,
Was the malevolence in her,
A cloud of nastiness,
A huge sneeze of Bad,
Surrounding her.

“'Why can't those buses go faster?
The driver's being lazy!
And why don't they replace those buses?
They're so bad!'”

And so it went on.
It was quite extraordinary.
We were in the bus,
Travelling, if moving inch by inch
Could be called travelling,
In that heavy traffic.
That suited our talkative friend,
Who found lots to say,
And definitely lots to criticise
About the people she saW
Through the bus window.

“'This man is up to no good.
I know it! He must be a drunkard!'”

And so it went on.
I was starting to feel uncomfortable,
And to be honest,
The bus lurching forth and back
As it started and stopped,
Didn't really help.
On top of that,
That judgemental woman,
That Criticiser of the whole world,
Who found everything to be
So much below her expectations,
Who sat there,
Prim as you like,
Filled with self-righteous disapproval,
Made all sorts of comments.

“'My neighbour's dog keeps barking at night.
Something needs to be done to get rid of it!'”

And so it went on.
All this, she was communicating earnestly,
To the person seated next to her,
An elderly person,
Who only responded with a couple of nods
and a few well-placed grunts.
I could have moved away,
I could have put on some music
And drowned off her complaints
In a cloud of melody.
But as it sickened me
To hear her nonsense,
It also fascinated me,
To be the sole witness
And recipient of these words of hate.
And it occurred to me,
As I listened, half-disbelieving,
And also very much angry,
How sad this person's life could be
That she would derive so much pleasure
Out of denigrating others.
A life of hate,
A life of emptiness.
It was all so sad.
She was angry at the world,
And I pitied her.
Oh I really did.

P.S: Based on an actual person behind whom I actually sat in the bus.