‘Baba I don’t like travelling by car. The next time we go, you go by car. I and mumma will come by bus.’ My six years old daughter Niva said. She dislikes travelling by car. She finds it quite boring. ‘Bhikeche Dohale.’ My mother said. This phrase in Marathi literally means craving to beg and is used when a better placed person hankers for lowly things. ‘Travelling by car is comfortable beta. The sun is scorching out heat. The air conditioner keeps us cool.’ ‘I don’t like AC. I want to travel by bus. I like bus.’ She said. I laughed at her. She kept on pestering me. A compromise was reached. The air conditioner turned off. The windows were opened. Hot air didn’t matter in front of my little girl. As luck would have it, I travelled for a week by bus, every single day and I concurred with her. I had to travel to a nearby town and I decided not to take my car due to traffic and lack of parking. So started my daily to and fro journey. A one way journey would take at least one and half hour. So I was spending more than three hours every day in travel. The first day I got the seat somewhere in the middle of the bus.
The second day I had to adjust on the last seat. With every bump I was tossed in the air like a baby. When was the last time someone had tossed me in the air like that? I don’t remember. May be never after I ceased to be a baby. The act was not quite comfortable given that the bumps were unexpected, but it surely was fun. Three people happily squeezed into a seat meant for three people. That too without any complaint and a smile which exhibited their not so perfect teeth. There was happiness, rather contentment which reflected on their unpolished faces.
I always hankered to sit in the single seat next to the driver. But for two days it was occupied and on the third though it was vacant a person sitting on another seat had reserved it for someone else who was to board the bus on the next stop. By reservation, I don’t mean the formal reservation by booking a ticket. This one was informal though accepted by the authorities including the conductor and the driver. On the fourth day I was lucky to get the seat next to the driver. I was very happy. But it was the month of the March. The driver’s cabin was hot like an oven. I regretted my decision of occupying that seat and waited for the journey to get over. That was the week when the government of Maharashtra declared fifty per cent concession to women travellers. That day the conductor was not in a very happy mood. The women were asking for tickets and he was punching full fare tickets.
He shouted and told them that, ‘Demand for a half ticket. I am accustomed to punching full tickets unless you specifically ask for a half ticket.’
On the next stop, a middle aged rustic lady boarded the bus with two huge sacks. She carefully placed the sacks behind the driver’s cabin and sat on it. ‘Now that you have fifty percent concession in the bus fare are you going to carry your entire paraphernalia in the bus?’ The conductor asked. ‘What to say Sahib!’ said the woman. ‘No one was feeding me when I had to pay for a full ticket. No one is going to feed me now because I have a travel concession. I have to work hard and earn a living to feed myself, and for that I have to carry these sacks with me.’ She said.
Life is much like that bus journey. Sometimes we sit on the last seat and come across bumps. We complain about it. We hanker to occupy the prestigious front seat only to realise that the experience is not pleasant as we had thought. It is when we are on the front seat that we regale the tales of how happy we were when we sat on the last seat of the bus.
Mahesh Sowani is an eminent author.
