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.
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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.
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.
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