Have you ever traveled on a bus in India? A local bus? I mean, the kind that stops every two feet and everyone seems to know each other.
Well, over the course of last year, I’ve travelled on such buses many many times. Now let me explain to you the significance of these buses. To the city-dweller it seems irritating, to stop at every cluster of houses and taking the longest possible route between points A and B. But to the villager, this same bus is the only source of transportation for ANYTHING and EVERYTHING. At every stop, there will be a group of people waiting by the side of the road, oftentimes not near any distinguishable form of habitation. The women will be sitting in a close circle, faces covered and whispering. Usually its just one woman who has to go, but everyone else is there to see her off. As soon as the bus appears, there is a flash of relief in the eyes of the men. “Areeeee, bus aaaa giiiiiii”. Then everyone slowly starts gathering their odd shaped packages of cloths, vegetables, shawls, etc.
How do I know this? I’ve sat in that circle and have experienced the same relief when the welcoming sound of motor and rattling of the local bus is heard from far away.
Let me tell you about finding a seat on these buses. Initially there might not be any, but it is a “survival of the fittest” skill. Spot one from far away and you better be quick. Now a seat is literally just that, a small patch of square leather on which you can sit. However, your ticket does not include air space, the area above the seat, which will include arms, elbows and small children belonging to other passengers. Now I realize that it is a bus and not an airplane and that I shouldn’t talk about air space. But given the road quality, sometimes the bus is not in contact with the ground for long enough to qualify for at least drinks and pretzels.
Ok, I call it a bus but you have to realize that its so much more than that…
It is a school bus… picking up and dropping off the lucky kids who get to go a school a little ways away from their village, usually because their village only has an elementary school. For the younger kids, its just another place to fight and play and make fun of each other. If they are lucky they get a seat, or even a chance to get on the bus (for at times they are banished to the roof). For the older ones, it is a place to study and to spend time with friends while not worrying about house work. They get on and immediately look for other schoolmates and start discussing why someone didn’t come today, what she said yesterday and who rode their bicycle to school today.
It is an ambulance… once or twice I’ve seen old women and men being literally carried onto the bus, because they don’t have the energy to walk. They are being taken to the local hospital, usually after days of being sick in the village. As a last resort, they are being taken to the doctor. I remember one woman slowly, I mean SLOWLY climbing the stairs. Each step she put down was put down so gingerly that it seemed that the ground might break her ankles if she stepped any harder.
It is a place of wonder and excitement, from whose dirty grimy windows you can glimpse nearby towns and cities…. Children visiting their aunts, uncles and grandparents, going on once a yearly trips, can hardly contain their excitement at the thought of getting on, and YES, actually riding the bus. The excitement is in every molecule of their body, the energy clearly visible as they are unable to sit still even after getting a seat. It is all a game to them, finding a seat, getting a ticket. Every time the bus stops, they will ask, where are we? Are we there yet? Which village is this?
It is a place of terror. One woman, sitting in the back corner with her face covered, looked up with fear as the ticket collector came closer and closer to her. The tension that had started with getting on the bus got exponentially higher and higher until… Where do you want to go? Indergarh came the timid response. 25 Rs. please. A trembling hand gave a 20 Rs note. 5 Rs more please. I…I…I don’t have any more money. A frustrated ticket collector sighs and leaves. The woman breathes a sigh of relief.
The most miraculous part of the incidence isn’t that he let her slide. It is the small baby sleeping soundly against the woman’s chest. With increasing heart beats and sweaty palms, the amazing skill of motherhood is that worries are never transferable.
While I travelled a lot on these buses, its nowhere near the daily up and down on DC metros to get to GWU for two years. With the invention of the iPOD, who knows what I missed out on?
O wow, I forgot the excitement that I experienced every time we stop at a major town…. A cup of tea J
