Two
autorickshaws can take a lot of luggage. Without too much effort, around eight
wisely packaged suitcases and bags were carefully loaded into them with room to
spare. We were also spared the hassle of change and sulking taxi drivers, and
instead found two friends in the men steering handlebars. In essence, they
helped us move house, with Ma’s two ‘strollies’ and my six cases to the
boarding point in Bangalore, before our onward journey to Kodaikanal.
Our steel
rims arrived on time and we got loud help to move this small mountain of stuff,
much to my delight and Ma’s relief. When the big wheels began turning and we
settled into our cramped first row seats, I mistakenly figured our seats would
be comfortable enough to accommodate my exhausted mother and my rather long
limbs. I was wrong to some extent.
My nicotine
angel came this time in the form of a glowing butt flicked from the driver’s
seat. Key was to get to his side now. The opportunity came in Hosur, an hour
away from old Bangalore, as the commercial wheels turn. We who frequently use
buses on this south route know these things; I knew it earlier as a relief
point. Whisky is risky, like an old friend says.
I jumped
out of our driven with the enthusiasm of a gazelle at the Olympics and quickly
tried ‘drinking’ the cigarette, but the man in charge cordially invited me to
finish it in the driver-companion cabin. I accepted gratefully, and went back
to my aisle seat upon completion. I promised to join him for one more at
Krishnagiri, a business and mango town an hour down. My medication makes me
drowsy so I couldn’t keep up that promise, and instead gated myself to the
surrounds of my reclining seat, passing out before I could yawn. Good thing I
did, because the movie was quite disturbing with bleeding camels and bikini
clad women rolled into one disturbing blur. The volume was not as intrusive, so
good sleep was thankfully the essence.
Bright
lights shone all around suddenly and Salem predawned on us. Ma was still
asleep, and I was rather tired too, but nicotine has outside effects as well. Stepping
out of the bus was a bit of an exercise as it was for trade workers loading
boxes. A pile of rather large concrete bricks were waiting for some form of
transport too, glowing grey in the fluorescent light.
We moved again
and stopped five minutes later at a tea and snacks shop, where a row of around
eight pilgrims were seated for nourishment before their undoubtedly arduous
walk ahead. A foreign couple alighted too and one of them got into a
conversation with a constable on his rounds there. We were soon shooed off by
the law, and I thought I might use this moving opportunity to have a chat with
our driver.
Bright
lights sped past on the other side on the highway, with a few on our side as
well. The mood was quite sombre in the cabin with some loud spiritual music
playing. How the adolescent cleaning boy slept was quite a mystery since there
was a purposeful slapping sound from the glove box as well, that did no part to
keep with the beat of the music.
Off beats
aside, it turned out our large chauffeur was not quite the average talker. I
tried getting him into a conversation about the gearbox without too much success, as his
answers were rather blunt. It had a seven-speed box restricted to a top speed
of 80km/h to slow down safely in the event of an emergency. Additionally, the
bus obviously did not have ABS and also needed the torque to safely climb
around fifty kilometres of a rather unforgiving ghat section that precedes our
mountain destination. Add all that to an almost three-foot high load on top and
suddenly the drive doesn’t look so appealing.
The priestly
man at the wheel told me about his need for music to stay awake as he was the
only driver allocated to the 450km journey. He kindly allowed me to interrupt
his playlist with some guest musicians from my mobile phone. I chose some
techno carefully, since the last thing one needs to do is play the wrong song
here, lest conversations and concentrations become strained. It would be wrong
not to add that the Nokia speaker did only occasionally struggle against those
six cylinder boys firing with all plugs blazing.
With no
blare but still glare, Ravi ‘Surya’ exchanged our personalities in brief. I
told him I was an out-of-work ‘twelfth pass’ with far less pride as he told me
he was from Mandya, Karnataka. The mood did lift, however, when after some cajoling,
asked him if he followed cricket. Ravi smiled it off and boomed, “Carrom”! He
warmly also added that Kabbadi was a much loved sport in the town. It was quite
evident there was some deep sadness inside him, with his bipolar-like manner of
speaking.
I had had
three of my rollies now and sleep was hitting again, so I took his leave
quietly and went back to the comfortable confines of my reclining seat, and was
asleep without much further ado or don’ts. The journey was smooth and we didn’t
wake till we reached the outskirts of our town. That lovely flying bus feeling
that one gets when looking out of the windows on the right side was a gentle,
sunlit alarm that only home can provide.
The tired
wheels turned into its resting place for half a day before private transport became
its calling again. The kid on the bus helped us with our belongings again,
while the driver took a breather in his seat in the cabin. Drenched in the
clean air and positivity of veedu[i],
it was good being home after so long.
[i] Tamil
for ‘home’
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