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The bus that ate people

20/10/2012

15 Comments

 
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Illustration compiled by Richa Verma
The old jhola his mother had hung across his shoulder with all his belongings in it felt a little heavy but that was not why 10-year-old Ballu Patwal was dragging his feet. His new rubber slippers were a little too tight around his fat toes. Besides, he was used to running around bare feet in his village and after the excitement of their newness had died, the slippers made him quite uncomfortable. He had been carrying them under his arm but when they reached the town where people were better dressed than in the village, Tauji had sternly told him to put them on. Even now, Tauji had his left hand in a warm sweaty grip and was pulling him along absentmindedly. They had walked an hour, crossing Pabo village that Ballu had heard about in the song “Aijaa re Bhanumati, Pabo bajaara” (Hey beautiful Bhanumati, come with me to Pabo bazaar) .Tauji had bought him a crisp hot orange jalebi from a roadside halwai that Ballu had savored for about 15 minutes, making it last longer by taking tiny bites and savoring each one till it melted in his mouth. There was no motorable road to Ballu's village and they had to catch a bus from Satpuli to Kotdwar, from where they would be taking the train to Delhi. Ballu was leaving his parents to study with his uncle in a big city now. His village education was over.

Suddenly there was a loud roar, unlike anything Ballu had heard before and he leapt an inch off the ground and then hid behind his uncle. Coming down the road was a battered old Garhwal Mandal bus with puke markings down the sides but Ballu had never seen a bus before. “Ee Boey, kya hole sey!” (Oh mother! What could that be?) he whimpered and holding his uncle’s hand, wrapped himself around him one and a half times. To him it seemed as if a fearful monster was roaring down and he wanted to get out of its way and save his life. Ballu’s uncle told him gently that it was a baldeh (a big bull) and they would have to travel on it since Kotdwar was too far away to walk. Still petrified, Ballu watched as the strange looking baldeh stopped with a rattle and people started disappearing into it. “That’s eating people. Mil ni jaan,” (I’m not going) he told his uncle firmly. Totally deaf to his declaration, Tauji dragged him up the steps. They found a place to sit and Tauji distracted him by pointing things out of the window. Suddenly there was a dreadful growl and the baldeh started shaking. Screaming and pulling at his uncle’s arm to get out fast, Ballu screamed: “Yale hamthey khaan cha aaj,” (he’s going to eat us today). He cried and pleaded with his uncle to get off but his uncle didn’t budge. After a while, when the baldeh didn’t exhibit any man-eating behaviour, Ballu relaxed. The bus started moving and Ballu slowly started enjoying the breeze on his face, the slight shake under his bum and the scenery zipping past his window. When the bus reached Kotdwar, he even let go of his uncle’s hand and got down by himself, wishing his friends in the village could see him.

At Kotdwar railway station when Ballu saw the Mussorie Express, he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a moving house his uncle told him, while he chewed his fingernails in disbelief. He just sat in one place through the journey not even daring to use the toilet for fear that he would get left behind. When they reached Delhi, he was surprised to find that there were no hills anywhere, just flat land all around. Never had he seen terrain like that. When he quizzed his uncle on where the hills had gone, he was told that when god had made the earth, he had left rocks and boulders in Garhwal but had trampled them under his feet to make other places flat.

-------------------

Ballu was admitted to a school and had shoes to wear and a copy to write on. Often in the evenings he would sit near the window, look at the stars and think of home in the hills. There, he would have been sitting near the kitchen wood fire with a flat piece of wood called the takhti.  He would wait patiently till his mother finished making all her rotis on the big iron tawa and and then he would ask her to turn it around for him. He would wait for it to cool a bit and then scrape off the soot from its underside and rub it on his takhti till it turned gleaming black. Then he would take a piece of old cloth and rub it on the wood to make the black surface shine. Next, he would take a small bowl and mix chuna with water to form a thick white paste. Dipping a piece of string in the liquid he would hold it straight and gently lower it on the takhti to make neat equidistant lines. Finally, the takhti would be put away to dry in a safe place where his siblings couldn’t smudge the fine white lines. The next day Ballu would march to school with his shining black slate and a twig that his father had chopped off a bamboo bush, sharpening the end into a fine point. Ballu would sit on the floor of the classroom and dip his home made pen in his home made ink to write the alphabets Masterjee called out in the most beautiful handwriting he could manage.

Just in case you’re wondering, I didn’t make up this story. I met retired Lt Col BS Patwal (yes, Ballu - now 69) at Ferozepur Club last weekend. He was looking quite distinguished in his white French beard and glasses as he sipped on his single malt. He refused a  lift back, saying he still preferred to walk. Though, he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, "buses don't scare me anymore".

Richa Verma is a slightly crazy though immensely talented graphic designer with the imagination of an eight year old.
She is generally recognized by a mad glint in her eyes and a tendency to ask for whiskey with breakfast.

If you want to check out the beautiful Bhanumati and Pabo bazaar, song is up for you. Check left scroll.

15 Comments
Mahendra
18/10/2012 01:46:13 pm

Ah, those buses! While I may not have reacted to them as Dhannu did, I did experience a similar unwillingness to board them - maybe the puke marks on the side, as well as the dazed / spaced out expression that the disembarking passengers had, resulted in that instinctive reaction for self preservation....

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RITEN KHOSLA
18/10/2012 03:23:03 pm

Gulliver's Travels may have been gullible worldwide,but Rachna,your narration of travel/people on the move is so rooted to the ground,that reading about this bus journey almost slips a disc or two//thank God you don't write too much about ghosts in the twilight.Absolutely wonderful.I was making small conversation with a co-passenger in a train,a Major who got speechless after a rag picker kind of boy came close to us to take away some disposables.Once the train moved,I asked him,what happened.He said,I was exactly like this boy for six years on railway platforms//I looked like him too.Case of Truth Stranger than Fiction.

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Rosalind Broomhall
18/10/2012 08:06:01 pm

Wonderfully evoked...with the twist at the end that it's true! India comes alive under your pen (ok..keyboard)

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Ritha
18/10/2012 10:21:39 pm

muuaaah..what a nice blog.this is the first thing I am reading in the morning, and I feel so good about the day already :) The details mentioned about the bus ride are so 'to the mark'. Lovely....just lovely. Thanks again for coming up with a lovely piece of work.

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Y S Rawat
19/10/2012 01:34:25 am

Your story is of a boy 59 year ago; a few years ago we had a boy from remote corner of Chamoli district and had come here for recruitment in Garhwal Rifles. I was surprised when he told that he boarded a bus for the first time when he came to Lansdowne and was very eager to see train at Kotdwara if & when we go down. We drove down just to show him the train. He was so excited that he would not let us stop at your parents place and wanted us to drive strait to railway station. When we finally reached station at about 9pm, he was speechless for quite some time looking at it from one end to another, touching the train and peeping through the windows. I made him go in and see from inside and sit on the berth for a while. He was so excited that for the rest of the evening and next day on our way back, he would only talk of the train.

The boy (Chhautan singh), is Hav in one of the Garh Rif bn.

Beautifully written Rachna, our complements.

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Deepak Gera
19/10/2012 05:55:25 am

As always.....Rachna ki rachna......behtareen

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sandeep
19/10/2012 06:09:51 pm

didi
as usual you its wonderfully written and the way you have described is just goes to prove that you can create magic by writing....didi all the best ...

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ajit nair
21/10/2012 12:05:03 am

very well written. interesting reading! dil mange more!!!

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BIG B JB
22/10/2012 03:12:59 pm

wow....feeling nostalgic as even my village also had same kinds of monsters......Bus journey used to be a gala event in good old days and writing of wooden takhti with sharp wooden pen ........it reminded old days of my childhood.......everything appears to be a dream now...when......your stories always depict/reminds old days..infact beautiful days....very well written......enjoyed thoroughly....

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NOOPUR
27/10/2012 01:42:22 pm

beautifully written Rachna ...the best part of all your stories is that they are inspired by real life events . Its heartening to think that the simple village boy made a life for himself by moving to Delhi . " The bus that ate people" :) only a child would have this vivid an imagination !!!!

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chotu
27/10/2012 02:34:25 pm

avearge by ur standards. keep it up

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ather
28/10/2012 09:07:12 am

your stories always take us on a journey - be it through the beauty of India or a trip down memory lane. Although I live in a city 100 miles from London,there are people here who have never been to the capital so I can well imagine that the journey from village to city in India is truly momentous for those who undertake it. Thanks for imparting that sense to us in such an endearing way.

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SAM
29/10/2012 02:12:02 am

Well written Rachna. Makes one realise how perceptions differ in different parts of the country. Also makes one question the concept of 'development' as in cities (roads, pollution, noise, traffic, rush hour, no time for contemplation ....)

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Anju
1/11/2012 12:02:55 pm

Very sweet narration ...a glint in my eyes n grin on my face .
Also loved the illustration by Richa ..the horn ,the brows -eyes n mouth of a bus :) n i just feel like a child myself !!

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B s patwal
27/7/2014 07:02:51 pm

Dear Rachna you have very nicly written about my childhood experience of seeing the bus for the first time I am not awriter I am still asame little boy from garhwal hills hence unable to comment on more spicy way please accept my regards and happy that this truestory was liked by many readers Thanks alot balbir

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    Rachna Bisht Rawat is a full time mom and part time writer. She is married to an Army officer whose work takes the family to some of the most interesting corners of India.

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