One-way ticket to that lonesome town

Hindustan Times

6 hours ago

'Aage peeche ho ke baith jaao, six sawaari ki seat hai'. (Please adjust and make room for the sixth passenger).
It is peak summer. The bus is packed with people, like sardines in a tin can, with all the sardines wearing backpacks. The last row is designed to seat only five people. Yet, the conductor of the bus, who looks like the third pillion rider of a 100cc bike in a small town, hisses at the naive back-seat dwellers. He wants to accommodate one more passenger in the last row and vacate a few square inches of standing space for another commuter. This additional fare will go to his own pocket, while the owner of the bus, most likely a local politician, won't know. The driversahab is in it as well. His cut is secure, so his eyes are constantly scouting for walking currency notes on the highway, for him to hit the brakes and scoop them up — much like a Super Mario brother collecting coins.
It is the late 1990s, and I am travelling to Ranchi. There is no Jharkhand yet. There is a layer of corruption over everything. Most people are preparing hard to reach a position where they can be harmlessly corrupt. The bus ride is long, and the roads are from the pre-Gadkari era. And I calmly absorb the bumps over potholes as a matter of fate.
Bus journeys have always been unique. It's often the first upgrade from just walking. It's a huge leap. From 2-3 km/hr to 40-50 km/hr. Every subsequent upgrade pales in comparison to this 20x jump. Hence there is no room to complain. Most people haven't experienced anything better. And, sometimes, there is poetry.
It is 40 degrees inside the rickety private bus, there are more people standing than there are sitting, and your shirt gets soiled by someone else's sweat. Passengers are carrying their belongings in a bag with a 666 beedi logo, cautiously guarded between their legs. Someone is selling coconut slices and a song is playing on the bus's speakers, a 1970s song you have never heard before from a forgotten film. It is about the longing of a village girl for her lover beyond the hills, a song that slowly grows on you. Then, your destination arrives, and you swiftly squeeze yourself out. But you have no way to reclaim that song; it is lost forever. There is no Google to search for the lyrics. Only the tune remains in your head, as an itch.
And it's poetic because we have just crossed Jhumri Telaiya, a town in the Damodar river valley, famous for that paan shop owner, who would flood Radio Ceylon's popular show, Binaca Geetmala, with his song requests. So much so that it put Jhumri Telaiya on the pop-culture map. But he picked up the idea from someone else. It was a rich mining city, inhabited by mica barons, who exported sheet mica — a material used in thermal insulation — and made so much money that they were driving Porsches in rural Koderma in the 1950s-60s. The money afforded them enough free time to make song requests to Radio Ceylon. Something which Ganga Prasad Magadhiya, the paan shop owner, picked up on and created a legend, thanks to the gracious host of the show, Ameen Sayani.
There are still three hours to go. Ranchi is where I go to school for my Plus 2 — Delhi Public School, a coveted institution in a city that is not Delhi, like a bakery that is not in Karachi. I have travelled 1,000 km from home to join this great assembly-line that ships students to top engineering colleges, so that they can eventually pay back ancestral loans and be the pension their parents never had. Such uncomfortable bus rides are building blocks towards that grand purpose. I am still standing, looking at people's faces who are seated, for some signs of urgency, a sliver of anxiety. Are they gathering their belongings? It shows their destination is closer and they will soon vacate their seat. All daily commuters in over-crowded public transport eventually master this art. The moment they see some signs of uneasiness on the face of a seated commuter, they inch closer to the seat and manoeuvre themselves to be the top contender of the impending vacancy.
In my case, most of them have dozed off. There aren't many urban centres on the route for people to alight, everybody wants to reach Ranchi. Even Hazaribagh, a city on the way, is not going to wake people up. The conductor has also settled in his seat, the roads are barren, and the driver is switching to Kumar Sanu songs now. All songs on the road are of despair, maybe a way for the driver to express job dissatisfaction. Now, the driver is parking the bus at a dhaba for people to relieve themselves and try out questionable aalu parathas at rates secretly decided by the driver/conductor. I give in to this corruption. Someone is trying to sell me a popular mineral water brand, but with a typo. Bus journeys are precious, but always in hindsight.
Abhishek Asthana is a tech and media entrepreneur and tweets as @gabbbarsingh. The views expressed are personal