On the bus floor

It was like any other Sunday. Warmer perhaps. 19^th May evenings are like that only.

Tatanagar is a city abuzz with activities. Industrial presence means a large population of lower middle class and its surroundings confer to it. Vegetables are sold on the sides of the road, there are a lot of bicycles and yes, autos. Autos of different shapes and sizes are found all across India. In Tatanagar, ‘Piaggio’ types of autos predominate. It’s like a three wheeled, bicycle steering-ed, doors removed ‘Sumo’ whose steel body has been replaced by thick black cloth.

I came out of Tatanagar railway station and took a shared auto to ‘Mango’. Its not pronounced like ‘mango’ the fruit but ‘man’ is pronounced as in ‘hanuman’. So, its ‘m-aa-ngo’. I sat on the back side of ‘Piaggio’. Remember, Sumo’s back, the seats facing each other. Piaggio back seats are like two iron seats kept over engines at back to stuff two more people in the auto. Journey on the back seat can be enjoyable. You can stare at a biker behind the auto and annoy him. The first speed breaker reminded me that auto has iron rods beneath the cloth body as my head banged on the auto ceiling. The ‘fatt-fatt’ of the engine created a rhythm and the diesel engine spurted smoke out the back side at regular interval. The bumpy, ‘fatt-fatt’, smoky, biker-staring, hip and head wreaking and utterly enjoyable auto ride ended at ‘m-aa-ngo’ bus stand.

I quickly spotted a ‘non-stop’ bus from TATA to Ranchi. The customer friendly approach of west is still an alien concept for bus operators, conductors, drivers, agents in this part of the world. A bhai-type person with a red towel on one shoulder looked at me as if anticipating begging. I begged for a seat. “Full ho gaya, nahi milega”. “Ek bhi nahi?!” I prayed again. His face said, “Go to hell!” He said nothing and banged his palm on the bus body. Bus started leaving my sorry soul behind.

I searched for other buses. One of the buses was ready to leave the bus stand. One more conductor, a more modern one, as the red towel was kept across the shoulders around the neck in the same manner as kept by most of the heroes of daily soap operas. Sometimes I wonder if my knowledge of fashion is too little or Indian women have really pathetic choice of men fashion. The beard was again grown to ‘hero-length’.”Ranchi?” He looked sternly at me and then at the bus where it was written ‘Saharasa’. It is a place in Bihar, a 15 hour journey. I looked back with a sad face emphasising that I know it will go to Saharasa but it will cross Ranchi within 3 hours. “Chadh jao magar seat nahi milega.” “Khade jana hoga?!” He frowned at my monumentally stupid question. “Jana hai??”. I made a sad smiley sort of face and shrugged my shoulders in ‘yes’. “Paise do”. “Kitna?” I said while opening my wallet. He paused a little and awkwardly peeked into my wallet and said, “Aassi de do”. I gave him a 100 rupees note. I waited for my 20 rupees. He frowned at my stupidity. “De denge, abhi khulla nahi hai”. I got into the bus.

I searched for a place to stand. Towards the back side of the bus, in the passage between seats, an iron bench was kept. Few people were sitting on it. “Lagan ka season hai” said a person sitting on bench in an explanation of over-crowdedness. Buses to Bihar are usually over crowded. And during ‘lagan’ (marriage season), strain on public transport rises to disproportionate levels. I searched for a space to keep my laptop bag. Since it was a ‘sleeper’ bus, there were no luggage carriers. On the bus floor, nearly at the middle of its length near the bottom of one of the stairs for sleeper seats, I kept the bag. But still the bigger problem remained. Where will I sit? A boy came to me and stood by my side. “Babu, Ranchi ja rahe ho?” {I will not explain why a boy called me ‘babu’ L } I said “haan”. “Bola tha seat denge per diya nahi”. “Humko to bola tha ki khade jana hoga”. “Kitna liya?” he enquired. McDonald’s ad came to my mind. He felt relieved by my answer.

By the time bus started, few more people got into the bus. It was around 6 pm of a hot windless summer day. The idea of journeying three hours standing in a packed bus in such heat was not so comforting. But isn’t comforting a vague concept? I consoled myself. Who said being cold is more comforting? Didn’t human population started, evolved and flourished more in warmer climates? Isn’t idea of human extinction always associated with cold climate?

Anyway, no one has related standing or sitting with human extinction. So, with no other options, I sat on the bus floor in the passage between seats near my laptop bag. Towards my back side were people sitting on the iron bench and towards the front side, people were standing. A man sitting on the iron bench offered me his travel bag to sit upon. I humbly declined. A man in late 50’s was sitting at the right side seat and a woman in early 30’s was sitting on the seat towards my left.     

The people standing in front of me included that Ranchi going boy, a middle aged woman and three other men. Encouraged by me sitting on the bus floor and with the idea of long journey ahead, they got a blanket and spread it on the bus floor in front of me. The spread of the blanket was not good enough to accommodate five people, but somehow they scrambled and sat. The last person, on the blanket in front of me, was that middle aged woman.

And this blog is all about that woman sitting on the bus floor.

There was a tiny bit of space left on the already overcrowded blanket. She looked at me, looked a little longer and then smiled with a tilt of her head and tapped that tiny bit of space on the blanket beside her. I smiled back in ‘no’. Not only because I was not so small to sit in that tiny place but also because I didn’t want her to suffer in the journey due to my encroachment of her space. Her smile showed the triumph of anticipated response.

Ah! The smiles and emotions, so rare! It’s not uncommon to see security-walas scolding ‘useless poor kids’ peeking into mannequins from outside the shiny glass windows of big shops. Probably the mannequins get offended. In a world where people are judged on ‘what they have to offer’, we rarely find pure human emotions in work.  

I looked at the woman. She was wearing a dull red sari. Her hairs were tied in old style ‘judda’. Slight wrinkles were visible in her forehead and cheeks. Her earring was nothing more than a golden drop. Nothing in the neck. She was thin. ‘Envy’ thin.

The woman in her 30’s sitting on the seat towards my left asked her where she was going. “Saharasa” and then added “kya karein, hum bhi aap hi ki tarah hain, bas seat nahi mila.” “Haan” replied the woman in 30’s.

“Haan” I thought. People are like this. Every one going to the same place, some get seats, some sit on the bus floor.

There is not much difference among the people in the world. People claim intelligence as the aspect bringing difference. Intelligent people get better job, they do better, they get more money. Have you a child from a decent family ending up as a rickshaw puller? Have you seen a child of a rag picker ending up as a millionaire? Rare. In almost all cases, living conditions of next generation is relatively same as the last generation. The womb matters not the brains.

“Ranchi mein kitna ghanta lagega?” asked the woman in 30’s. “3 ghante” I replied. She gave a sympathetic look. I noticed that the bus was not moving for quite some time and people were getting restless. Passengers started to get out of the bus. We, the floor sitters, had to stand up to give way to back ‘seaters’. The woman in dull red sari woke up from her siesta and just shifted a little bit on the floor.

We got out. Bus was experiencing some ‘engine’ trouble. It was already dark outside. Various types of headlights were rushing through the highway. Slow high beams of trucks, fast high beams of buses, fast low beams of cars and single beams of motorcycles. Lights were twinkling from the few roadside dhabas. One of the ‘gumti’ (small raod side shop) was selling cold drinks, guthka (tobacco) and cigarettes. Biscuits for ‘kids’ too. Its ironical that cold drinks and tobacco have better reaches than medicines and lentils. I wandered around a little. Then I don’t know why but I returned back in the bus.

The woman in dull red sari was sleeping on the bus floor. I sat nearby. Her legs were folded to the level of her chest. Space constraint or habit, I was not sure. Her heels had cracks. Her bare stomach vibrated in sync with her breaths. It had birthmarks on it. The whites in her hair ran parallel to the wrinkles on her face. I kept watching her, my thoughts going blank.

The engine trouble was sorted out. People started getting back into the bus. The woman in dull red sari woke up as people started taking back their previous positions. Engine trouble had consumed a lot of time. People were tired. They soon fell asleep.

I rested my head on the seat next to me. My eyes closed, and it remained so for an unknown period of time.

I heard the woman in dull red sari’s voice in my dream. No, I can’t be so obsessed with her. It was real. She was saying something to the uncle on the seat. I saw his foot had slipped beneath her hips and she was asking him to keep his legs ‘within limits of his seat’. Uncle grudged on her and other fellows sitting on the floor who had occupied unnecessary space. The woman in dull red sari saw that I had woken up and seen the whole ‘scene’. She looked at me, this time a lot longer with straight head, with a look that conveyed it all. A look that showed disgust towards society, a look that told me that she didn’t want me to have witnessed that and a message that I shouldn’t be like ‘this’ in future. I picked my laptop bag from the other side and placed it in the space between her and uncle’s seat. She gave a dry smile.

Bus stopped again after some time. The engine was giving regular troubles. People again got down. I too got down. This time it was taking a lot longer. ‘Why shouldn’t I catch other buses from the road?’ I thought. I took my laptop bag from inside the bus and got down. I was watching out for buses on the road when the woman in dull red sari came out of the bus. She went towards one of many gumtis on the roadside. She unfolded one knot at end of her sari and took out a folded currency note. One bus had stopped before me and the conductor was shouting, “Chalna hai?” I looked at the conductor and then towards her. I ignored the bus conductor’s call and returned back towards my ‘original’ bus. The conductor grumbled some words behind my back.

I spent the time staring the sky. The stars seemed to have moved away from the earth. Probably expanding universe, probably too many falling stars, probably too much pollution. I shifted my attention to mechanical parts of the engine. People were gathered around the mechanic. A few expert comments from passengers, heated debate between driver and mechanic and few bolts opening and closing later, the bus was ready to move.

People went in and back to their original positions. How much humans love system and rules! It’s convenient, I suppose. We love rules and when we break one, we make a new one!

I started talking to her. How easy it is to converse with a woman twice your age! With girls of similar age, you have to weigh every word you speak against all possible ‘odds’. With her it was easy, I was a kid and everything was excusable.

I asked her a lot of questions. Questions not like – ‘Where is my shirt kept?’ ‘How much time left to prepare breakfast?’ ‘Has my trousers been pressed?’ ‘Why is dal so salty today?’ But questions like – ‘What you wanted to become in life?’ ‘Do you always wear saree?!’    

It was new to her. All her life she had been a daughter, a wife and a mother but never had anyone tried to see her as an individual. The woman in her was lost somewhere.

Her father was a farmer. She was born to his second wife. First wife was found drowned in the well. Probably slipped. Two daughters from the first two years of marriage and no child for the next five years. Probably drowned. Woman in dull red sari was the first child to second wife. Next three were brothers.

Thanks to two elder stepsisters, her childhood was better than most other girls of her area. She was only in the charge of ‘cow business’. Except milking, which was prohibited for females, she did everything for the cow. She loved making various designs out of cow dung. Once she had made a ‘shivlingam’ from cow dung and her father had given a special pat on her head. The second time, she received such a pat on her marriage. She was fourteen.

She wanted to marry any important man, like the tahsildar. Her wife had more jewellery than other women. Her home had two floors with a balcony. People looked strange when seen from top, she had observed while repairing the thatched roof of her cow shed. She wanted to be a woman married to an important man, a woman with lot of jewellery and a woman watching people’s strange heads from balcony.

She was married to a clerk in government office. He retired as an office superintendent last year. She realised her dream of a balcony in 15^th year of her marriage. Her married life was, well, a married life. Food, clothes, utensils, tiffin boxes, vegetable market, local grocery, ironing, more food, more tea, more worship, next morning.

She hadn’t worn anything other than saree after marriage. She hadn’t worn anything other than frock before marriage. Earlier she used to copy Shabana Azmi’s hair style. Now, she doesn’t care.

After marriage, she had moved to Tatanagar. A city of dreams, money, good schools, people with cars, modern people. Compared to her ‘under developed’ village in Bihar, it promised a brilliant future.

The happiest moments of her life were when her children were small. Raising a boy and a girl was exciting, they kept her busy, kept her live.  

The kids were given the best possible education. They studied in good English medium schools. She learned to tie a ‘tie’. She understood the meaning of putting ‘greens’ and ‘proteins’ in food. Her husband earned everything in ‘black and white’ to meet the growing ends. Children needed new dresses, computers, tuition classes. Children needed time to study. They couldn’t be disturbed by asking to do household works, by asking to bring milk and vegetables, by asking to help when she felt ill. No, children needed time to succeed.

They did indeed. The elder son got a job in a reputed software firm last year. His initial setup in Bangalore was made easier, thanks to huge retirement benefits of his ‘sarkari father’. The younger daughter was in 2^nd year bio-tech course of a reputed Bangalore engineering college. The parents wanted that the siblings should live together at Bangalore to cut costs. The boy needed ‘IT’ related atmosphere at home and the girl wanted friends to discuss ‘studies’. Hence, two different set-ups. Last, they had come home in December for a week. They were busy now.

They had succeeded now. Parents were proud. The woman in dull red sari was travelling on the bus floor.

I looked at her sari intensely; its dull red colour appeared paler. The colour was red but the fabric was weaning and weak.  

“Aap khush hain?” She looked at me and said, “haan, ghar ja rahe hain.” “Jis ghar mein aap abhi rehti hain, wanha khhus hain?” She looked at me a lot longer and said, “Haan”. The eyes were stale.   

The bus was entering Ranchi. The lights were looking bright outside at night. How no longer we were dependent on natural light!