The Office Bus Election

The office shuttle’s political system began with a packet of banana chips and a failure of equal distribution. Someone in row two ate the last handful before the packet reached row five. By the next signal, passengers were discussing accountability.

Their driver, Devaraj, had nothing to do with this. He was managing an Outer Ring Road commute and had correctly identified national governance as outside his employment scope.

The complainant was Sandhya, a finance analyst in row five. The accused was Prakash, a sales manager in row two who claimed the packet had felt empty when he received it. Evidence on his shirt suggested otherwise.

“We need a system,” Sandhya said.

That was all it took. People who spent their working day resisting additional responsibilities suddenly volunteered for government. A data scientist offered to design a voting form. An HR associate insisted that participation remain optional. A designer asked whether the administration needed a visual identity.

By Wednesday, the shuttle had elected a snack secretary, a playlist minister, and a comfort coordinator. Sandhya became snack secretary on a platform of transparent packet circulation. Prakash won nothing and called for a review of the counting process.

The playlist minister, Roshni, promised equal representation across languages and genres. Her first playlist contained a romantic song, an energetic dance track, and a devotional number accidentally left over from a family journey. Passengers accepted this as coalition politics.

The comfort coordinator, a quiet engineer named Uday, lasted one morning.

“AC swalpa increase,” said someone near the rear.

“Too cold here,” said someone near the front.

“Can we close this vent?”

“Can we open that vent?”

Uday stared at the ceiling with the expression of a man discovering that leadership was mostly temperature.

They agreed that requests would go through him while the vehicle was safely stopped, rather than six people calling out to Devaraj. He adjusted individual vents, suggested swapping seats, and announced a compromise. It worked for seven minutes.

Then a new passenger boarded wearing a thick jacket and said it was too warm.

Prakash sensed opportunity. He formed the opposition. His entire manifesto was “AC swalpa increase”, delivered with conviction and no cost estimate. People applauded because the phrase was familiar and because their morning meeting had been cancelled.

Sandhya attempted to refocus the government on snacks. She introduced two packets travelling in opposite directions, an elegant solution until both reached Prakash simultaneously. He held them up in triumph. The designer later called the photograph “a failure of distributed systems”.

On Friday, Roshni’s playlist repeated the same song three times because her phone had connected badly. The opposition demanded an enquiry. Uday offered his resignation. Sandhya asked whether anyone had considered simply behaving like adults.

The bus fell silent. It was a provocative proposal.

Devaraj pulled into the office’s designated drop-off area, secured the vehicle, and finally addressed his passengers.

“I have one request.”

Everyone listened. Even Prakash lowered the banana chips.

“Keep the aisle clear. Don’t leave packets on the seats. And decide the music before we start.”

The simplicity was devastating. No committees. No form. No logo. Three practical requests from the only person who had been doing the actual transport work throughout the constitutional crisis.

The shuttle government survived, but its powers were reduced. Sandhya continued organising snacks. Roshni collected song requests in advance. Uday became an ordinary citizen and visibly recovered. People adjusted vents and offered seat swaps before beginning ideological debates.

Prakash remained opposition leader because nobody wanted to take the title away from him.

At the next election, he won comfortably after distributing oranges. Sandhya examined the result and nodded.

“At least everyone received one.”

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.