Travails In A KSRTC Bus

TRAVAILS IN A KSRTC BUS



‘Looks can be deceptive’ I realized this in extreme discomfort five hundred meters or so above the sea level amidst grandeur of the Western Ghats. Not in a religious place did the truth dawn upon me rather in second row of a KSRTC bus driven by a psychopath driver determined to get us to heaven without divine approval and appointment.

By nature I am an outdoor person and once in a while I indulge in stress busting activities like romp around the hills in pursuit of feathered friends or simply an opportunity to be wooed by the charms of nature.

But you see nothing confines a man to home like commitment to writing. Sitting at my table eyeballing crows outside the window in game of eye-tennis for months had me saying “enough is enough.”

Desperate to break free, with Western Ghats and weekend on the horizon, I headed to Cochin bus station at nine without any plan. Drunks and citizens of the night stood outside the margin of light and passengers under a solitary halogen lamp that remained lit with a consistency of fairy lights on a Christmas-tree.

Finally, finally! Heavens hear my prayer. There are rumors of a bus to Thekkadi at ten. And behold--half past ten a beat-up bus appears; I can scarcely believe that it can run; mountains are nigh out of the possibility.

The sight of the bus has an amazing effect on the group of sleepy passengers. Enthusiasm to grab seats ignites the fuse and there is mini Mahabharata at the narrow entrance. All civility is discarded as the mass erupts, kicks, punches and shoves all accompanied to a sound track of choicest Malayalam four-letter words: synthesized with some amazing groans, grunts and moans. When an ample lady stuck in the narrow entrance dams up the human flashflood, situation gets rapidly out of hand.

I rather not describe her plight as her meaty back becomes everything from a dart board to a punching bag. I stand in the safety of no-mans-land a meter away from the churning human mob, suitcase in my hand and no chance to squeak through! When I finally get in and find a vacant seat I am surrounded by sweaty faces of bruised warriors in sheepish grins—there are seats aplenty and such savagery was rather unnecessary.

Conductor strikes the bell; bus shudders & awakens to ding-ding. It is quite late and I am concerned as I catch the driver yawn yet again from my seat, second from him on the other side. It’s the last bus on the route, it screeches to halt every 15 minutes or so and collects a new batch of merry drunks hanging to the last strand of sanity. An hour into the journey bus is packed like a brick. Arguments flare up here and there as the drunks bargain over the price of ticket or discuss when the bus will reach Cochin!

Little normalcy and fresh air return when ‘comrades of the bottle’ have been offloaded, some a good trekking distance of twenty five kilometers or so from their stop and others in entirely different district. However there are a few left. Half past twelve, people are still standing and the endurance of even the best drains.

The road is level, traffic sparse, wheels hum on the tarmac, and I am eager to see how this aluminum canister contraption called bus will negotiate the Ghat roads. A powerful urge to sleep runs through the length of bus. Under its spell people standing begin to sprawl on the floor and every sq centimeter of area becomes the most valuable real estate in the world. In deep slumber limbs seek for that extra bit of space, and mistakenly wander into neighbors not so pleasant areas. Result? Not so pleasant exchange and some rearguard action.

As we approach the mountains, window curtains shield us from the nippy December air and nearness to a human body is a comfort. I think, I am lucky to be sharing a seat meant for one and a half people with a person given to practicing martial arts in his sleep. There is nothing laidback about the seats though, they are designed no doubt for the ultimate travel experience which includes a backrest at an acute eighty five degrees. Driver coaxes the bus up the steep road; engine protests and sputters, metallic din shatters fills the air. Thick black smoke trails the bus like a moon-bound rocket.

Turns are sharp and I hold on to the seats with all I have. Another turn and to my horror, suitcase ejects from the rack above and lands with a crash between the legs of terrified but thankful young man. Road writhes like a snake. There is no better place to keep the suitcase so it goes where it was, every turn, I plop it back with my left hand while with other I regain balance.

The Bharthnatyam continues as I anticipate every turn. Suddenly! In the inky blackness pierced by the head light, road ahead is almost vertical. Bus claws itself to the top.

Once there our pot bellied Tom Cruise leans forward yanks at the gear and goes into dervish frenzy, as if seated behind a F16. Black smile lighting an even darker face, throws the god dammed thing into a maniacal plunge. The bus screams like a banshee and goes into a dive, shedding nuts and bolts like dandruff. Humanity inside is treated with same disrespect that is generally reserved for food matter inside a stomach afflicted with an urge to go often to restroom. As the speed builds-up Tandav replaces Bharathnatyam.

World erupts! Is it apocalypse of cataclysm? Am I journeying to hell or heaven? Questions…confusion…vrahhhhhhhhhhhh bus screams, shoes, sleeper, hair, bags, and a set of dentures mate shamelessly. khad…khad..khad…kata gears rattle into place. Aiyoooooooooooooo screams a horrified ammatchi struggling to keep her soul and body together. A wasted piece of humanity, a remnant drunk sails past like an astronaut on a space walk. I taste death through the night. I hover between the land of living and the dead. I see my future and the past. I become a sinner and a saint. I become a believer and a skeptic all in the second seat of a modest KSRTC bus. I finally concede that a vehicle is only as good as the driver and our heavy weight Tom cruise is the Top Gun among bus handlers.

Like all noble people I too search for some positives in a tribulation. And it is a great reassurance to know that something’s in life are stable and unmoved, unaffected by the circumstances around them. On the cold windswept Western Ghats that fateful night when the bus threatened to fall apart and all mayhem broke loose. Only source of great comfort was the speedometer needle which through the six hour ordeal lay contently at zero.

© Nitin Joseph