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‘What time will the bus to Chamundi arrive?’ I asked a man at the bus stop. ‘It’s already two hours late’.
‘Don’t worry, sir’, came his reassuring reply. ‘There is one thing you can be sure of; that bus, it will arrive’.
Rural travel in the Indian sub-Continent requires a generous amount of time; for there is little option, if you want to get anywhere. It often calls for a helping of fortitude, and an elimination of expectation, if you are to keep body and soul together.
Fleets of state-run buses, resembling battle-weary combat vehicles, link remote villages; regularly transporting passengers, to their destination. Timetables are published, but they are best considered a guide, and being on time can be considered a bonus.
Schedules are often disrupted by a directory of causes. Fare-payers are used to it, appeasing rare foreigners by offering their kind advice of not to worry, as everything was God’s Will.
To an venturing traveller, the ‘getting there’ will become less important than the journey itself. Their passage is not usually vital, allowing the primary objective to be long-held memories of small events; cherished evocations of camaraderie, good humour and sometimes, bizarre proceedings.
A vital spark of adventure coursed through my blood as the Gujarat State Road Transport Corporation sent its bus, pulling up on the gritty road at the edge of town. Its side panels were on the verge of popping their rivets, it was so crowded.
When it came to a halt, I reined in my excitement. It seemed futile to even attempt to enter the bus with a heavy rucksack, it was so packed. Standing on the top step at the door, the conductor seemed bemused by my hesitancy. I addressed my cowardice, took a breath and stepped up to my first lesson in survival. With deft hands on the back of my rucksack, passengers flicked me forwards. They propelled me further, inching me from side to side, with the same wristy action upon my shoulders. Shorter folk ducked under my armpits, but I soon hit an impenetrable barrier of bodies and came to a standstill. I was halfway down the bus, and in the middle of the aisle.
I stood rigid between other standing passengers, unable to loosen my rucksack. I looked around, quickly surmising that even if I could take it off, there was nowhere to put it.
I smiled at those immediately around me, but they only looked back blankly at the foreigner who had just landed from Mars.
All eyes were fixed upon me, in a stare that carried no hint of embarrassment. I looked back inquisitively, unable to do so for very long without feeling awkward. I had been comprehensively outstared.
I was determined to break some ice, so the next few minutes were spent assimilating my company. My immediate attention was drawn to the men. How much effort they had put into their appearance that morning! Whilst they had donned everyday cloth, which was a little grubby, and layered with a fresh coating of dust, they still managed to look stylish. Their classic short white, cotton-embroidered smocks and jodhpurs, were exuberantly supported by more white cotton, abundantly turbaned around their heads. They wore heavy leather, sometimes plastic, pointed slippers. The most care and attention was reserved for the grooming of their magnificent moustaches, which were curled, twisted and waxed at the tip. They adorned themselves further, with prominent gold earrings.
Some were smoking beedies, one thoughtfully chewed on a raw green chilli, others sat or stood amongst their luggage, looking unperturbed.
The ladies, as they were referred to by the notice above the seats that were specifically allocated to them, injected bold colour into the abundance of white; every one of them wearing either a saree or shalwar kameez, depending on their age.
The bus had travelled deep into the Gujarati countryside, when I became aware that I, and my rucksack, had become a barrier to movement within the vehicle. Each time I moved a fraction, to take the pressure off a particular joint or muscle, there was a knock-on effect.
Two small ladies standing behind me bore the brunt, and two young girls sitting in a seat adjacent, found this very funny.
I turned my head to look behind me as best I could. The two small ladies did not look too pleased with the situation. Their glum faces held an expression of frustration at not being able to tell me off in a language that I would understand.
I could only have assumed that they were becoming more and more angry with me, as the volume of the two young girls’ laughter increased as we progressed along the pot-holed road.
It became clear to me that each time I moved, my rucksack was hitting one of the small women in the face; this caused her to dart to one side, consequently hitting a seated elderly woman in the head, causing her to complain.
Aware of this small commotion, I would move the opposite way, so hitting the second small woman, who would then fall against another elderly passenger on the other side, causing her to complain.
Each time this happened, the effect was to generate increasing laughter from the two girls, who were ultimately beside themselves, and with tears rolling down their cheeks, they covered their mouths to supress their giggles. The laughter was becoming infectious. It spread. Nearby seats were occupied with quietly chuckling passengers.
Each rucksack adjustment mechanically instigated the next movement, like the sequencing in a timepiece. And like the colourful figures in a rathaus clock, in a German town square, the last cog in the sequence – usually a man with a hammer – would strike the bell to chime the clock. The bell in this case, being the two elderly ladies, whose chimes were not altogether pleasing on the ear.
After realising what was happening, I twisted myself around. I too had become infected by the spreading laughter. I tried to resist the contagion, hoping that the two small ladies could discern that my mirth was nothing other than good-natured.
Without understanding a word of my language, everyone seemed to get the gist of my urgent and profuse apology. It appeased the situation. From that moment I was looked upon with more kindly faces, and the odd reassuring smile.
I remained as still as I could, pot-holes notwithstanding, for the rest of the journey. I could still not relieve myself of the rucksack, and continued to be a barrier between the front and the back of the bus.
A few miles before the next village, where the bus was due to make a scheduled stop, I had become aware of a very slight gentleman, patiently waiting behind me.
He had climbed out of his seat to progress towards the door at the front of the bus, so that he could disembark once it had reached a standstill. He did not say a word; meek in character, I could feel him searching for the smallest crevice through which to squeeze. There was none. I was utterly helpless to assist. He climbed up onto the chrome-plated metal handrail at the back of the seat occupied by one of the elderly ladies.
This chap was one of the few men not dressed in white. He was garbed in brown terylene trousers, black shoes and a Fair Isle sleeveless sweater. There were two ball-point pens clipped to its V-neck. His thinning black hair, the same colour as his thick rimmed glasses,
was combed back. He carried a slender black, well-worn brief case to complete the appearance of an archetypical office clerk. Like a sparrow, he perched on the back of the seat, then each time we hit a pot-hole, or avoided a cow in the road, he reached out in an uncoordinated way, to keep his balance. The giggling fit that had earlier beset the two young girls re-emerged, as it was I who had become afflicted, and I struggled to contain my sniggering.
The sparrow worked his way forwards from the back of one seat to the next, clinging onto the underside of the overloaded luggage rack, as he clambered over the tops of passengers’ heads.
I felt greatly relieved to see this quiet man get off the bus without making the slightest complaint, thus saving me from further embarrassment, amongst passengers who may not have seen the humour that I had found in the situation.
I don’t know how long we had travelled, perhaps two hours, before I stepped down from that bus. My swollen ankles failed to support me, and I collapsed on the roadside verge. I laid there like a tortoise on its back, suspecting two dislocated shoulders, a broken collar-bone and imminent seizure of all my major organs.
It was time to find a chai stall.