The street was dark as we trekked to the Bangalore bus station. The sidewalks were still bustling with people, their faces eerily aglow from the petrol lamps hanging on vendor carts and the faint yellowy bulbs in the shops lit by rumbling diesel generators. It was one of those “load-shedding” blackouts in the power-starved city. The darkness did not deter the men waiting in a long, tightly-packed line to the State Beverages Corporation outlet. Despite the all-embracing name, they were not in the queue to buy Pepsi, Fanta, or a chai for that matter. The only beverage being dispensed at the Beverages outlet was of the IMFL variety. The camaraderie and the shared sense of purpose were palpable. Few other lines in the city would be as orderly or disciplined.
Autorickshaws, taxis, and motor scooters sped by, unencumbered by the absent streetlights. Suddenly, adding to the sense of unease, several muffled explosions shook the air. Brilliant white flares arced through the night sky, set off by colliding wires on an
electric post, momentarily lighting up the entire scene like a tableau. People huddled nearby for an evening chat ran away in all directions. A flock of birds roosting on the eaves of an old municipal building took flight with a giant swoosh. I wondered how there could be live wires while there was a blackout, but there was little time to think while dodging the vehicles and the cows settling down roadside for a night’s rest.
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| Let's all get along |
The lights flickered back on as we crossed an alley that evidently, judging from the stench, doubled as a relieving station. We turned the corner and arrived at the bus station. This is where we were to board the bus for an all-night ride to our home town, Thrissur. Despite the late hour, there was hardly a spot to stand. The mass of people milling about resembled a giant amoeba that constantly reshaped as people joined from all sides and others boarded the dimly lit buses, which were scattered about in no particular scheme, like organelles in a cell.
“I told you, you should have booked the train,” my wife reminded me again.
I pretended not to hear, which wasn’t hard given the high decibel level. “You wait here. We will go in and get the tickets,” I said and gestured to our friend and host KK who had come along to see us off.
KK and I pushed and shoved our way through the throng to a long line of desks each crowded with people talking and gesturing to one another all at the same time. The situation looked hopeless: One of these desks held our tickets booked earlier in the day over the phone, but there appeared to be no obvious way to find our desk or to get a clerk’s attention. I now understood why KK had insisted that he would come with us to the bus station to see us off. Without his intricate knowledge of this system with unwritten rules, a bus ride would never materialize.
KK gestured me to follow him has he waded his way to a desk. In rapid succession, he directed several shouts and wild gesticulations at one of the clerks sitting behind the desk. The clerk ran his finger down a long and heavily worn register and returned the favor with equal vigor. KK’s face turned glum. He turned to me. “Your name isn’t on the list. And this is the last bus. Our best bet is to stay near the bus and hope two people don’t show up."
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| (Credit: manishonblog.blogspot.com) |
We elbowed our way back to where my wife was standing and from there KK led us to a bus parked at an angle to the curb. It looked nearly full. The bus had one door and several people who appeared to be the crewmen were hanging out around it smoking beedies. KK stepped ahead and spoke to one of them. After an exchange involving a mixture of Kannada, Hindi, and English, he turned toward us.
“They are picking up several people from the next stop. But two passengers supposed to board from this stop aren’t here yet. So let us wait and see,” he said, offering a glimmer of hope that our vacation will be back on schedule.
Things happened fast. After about 10 minutes of waiting around, we were startled by the sound of a blaring horn. The driver had gotten in and was alerting the crew that it was time to start. The hangers-on scrambled onto the bus. We looked beseechingly at the head crewman who was the last to board and was standing on the steps. He swung his arms and gestured at us, yelling “get in, get in.” I helped my wife on to the steps and clambered up with the suitcase. The crewman pointed to two seats in the front by the door and said “sit here.” As we plopped down and waved hurriedly at KK, the bus was off.
The seats were comfortable. We smiled at each other and thanked our luck. Our first
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vacation back in India after our wedding had been adventurous to say the least, and now this unpredictable night-time bus ride. We talked about the day-long bus tour of Mysore which we shared with an NRI family that dressed as if they were at the Miami Beach and a train trip from Thrissur to Thiruvananthapuram on the “Super Express” which chugged along and took nine hours instead of the promised six.
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The crewman gave the go ahead and the bus started rolling. Suddenly, there was loud banging on the side of the bus followed by several shouts. I strained my neck and leaned over my wife who had dozed off by now and looked outside. Several people were running by the side of the bus, trailed by a taxi. The bus stopped. A bony looking middle-aged couple got out of the taxi and ran toward the door. Whatever had brought them to Bangalore, dining out on the rich Kannada cuisine clearly wasn’t on their agenda. Some frantic exchanges with the crewman manning the door ensued. The crewman pointed at us and said something. I closed my eyes and rested my head on my wife’s shoulders, pretending to be oblivious of the unfolding drama. It was easy nevertheless to figure out what had happened. The couple had missed their designated stop and had caught up with the bus taking the taxi. Unfortunately, their seats had been sold to others, who were by now sound asleep.
Whether their physical frailty contributed to their accommodative attitude I do not know, but they did not challenge the reversal of fortune, despite the rigors of the seatless journey ahead. Someone from the front pushed a pair of wicker stools down the aisle and the hapless couple took their seats for the long ride. It was past 11:00 PM. The bus had begun to pick up speed. Except for a few rest stops along the way, the next stop would be in Palakkad at six in the morning. I settled back and fell asleep.
My poor calculation about the suitcase’s fate and my smugness in not joining the rebellion to challenge its precarious positioning soon came back to haunt me. At around half-past two, the bus took a sharp turn and started an uphill climb. That combination plus the bus’s speed were enough to dislodge the suitcase, as the old lady had foreseen. It came flying out, straight at me. Only the stanchion in front by the door saved me from serious injury. The suitcase hit the pole and fell to the floor with a loud thud, but not before its corner graced my forearm with violent force. The noise woke up everyone and prompted the driver to switch on the cabin lights. As my wife began vigorously rubbing my arm, the owner of the suitcase got up and sheepishly retrieved it. With the evidence and the potential police action now arrayed against him, he spent the rest of the journey resting the heavy burden tightly on his lap. I caught the bony couple eyeing me with an unmistakable hint of satisfaction.
Around 6:00 AM, the bus reached Palakkad and pulled over for a stop. We got out and bought tea from a roadside stand, served in shot-glass like cups, just enough for a gulp. As we got back to our seats, my wife began feeling uneasy. The shaky journey on top of some Bangalore street food had left her with an upset stomach. Home was just a couple of hours away, I consoled her. The bus sped down NH-47 via Alathur, Vadakkanchery toward Thrissur. We requested a stop and got down at Mannuthy. Hailing an auto, we were home by 8:00 AM.
My mother greeted us with a warm breakfast. But my wife was in no mood to eat. She went to shower and freshen up. When she returned, she was looking ill. Suddenly, she began retching, and holding her tummy, ran out the door into the yard. I caught up with her and rubbed her back. She sat down and started throwing up.
“What happened? Is she alright?” my mother poked her head out the door and asked.
“Yes, she’s fine. She’s a little nauseated and vomiting,” I said.
My mother smiled warmly, with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. “She will be fine,” she said. “Just needs some rest.”
As she stepped away, she turned around.
“It's about time!” she said.
