Urban Updates I (Enriching Busrides)

There are such a variety of buses in this city. Red ones with the signs of upkeep hard to discern, two-storied ones that moved about with vintage nonchalance and broke down whenever the time was ripe, cream ones that had appeared as salvation but seemed to be retreating in ignominy, the ones for executives where no one except the conductor is allowed to stand, the so-called mini-bus with a flash of red and yellow on their sides and finally the ubiquitous workhorse the tin can `private’ bus that literally brings the competitive spirit to the streets and so is a safety hazard for passenger and pedestrian alike. The variety and possibilities does not end here. In fact with the bus and the trams and the taxi, the metro and the autorickshaws and the rickshaw, the circular railway and the river ferries, Calcutta provided a larger menu of transport options than almost any other city of India. Yet it fell far behind cities like Delhi where environment-friendliness of transport was concerned. Moreover what was also lacking were good roads and a seamless integration of the major modes of transport and this prevented passengers from easily changing from one type of transport to the next.
Pedro climbed on one such workhorse of Calcutta’s transport infrastructure – a private bus. It was so packed with passengers that he had to hold the door handle and hang outside the door, and set off for Mrs Gaitonde’s office in the south of the city. One among a swarm of human commuters on a tin box vehicle, packed with sting-less bees.
All kinds of things happened on such a bus journey. Each was a kind of learning, an experience that kind of leavened one up, fluffed one up like a roti full with the hot air of understanding. However continuous travelling soon mashed and kneaded you up so much that any further developments could not be expected.
After hanging for sometime by the handle at the door of the speeding bus and ducking inside every time another passed dangerously close, Pedro felt his hand getting tired. He advanced a step and changed to his left hand, when the conductor noticing his movements decided to ask for his ticket. One couldn’t blame the conductor for this decision. For everyday there were people who took a ride and went off smartly without buying a ticket. Fights and exchanges would occur and the conductor would be the wiser. `Let me get inside! Then I will buy the ticket,’ Pedro screamed back over the noise of tyres and horns.
‘Well, the poor fellow is carrying a bag and besides he doesn’t look like one of those sneaky types,’ the conductor thought. `OK, step in brother,’ the conductor said as if with those magic words the crammed tin-box of sweat and discomfort was transformed into someone’s grand reception hall. Pedro looked away, the conductor looked the other way, telling the passengers who wanted to alight at the next stop to come along. `Step in uncle,’ he advised Pedro this time.
A kilometre onward from where he had boarded the bus, that meant about ten minutes at that hour, Pedro managed to wriggle inside. He climbed the steps and tried to make himself comfortable just beside the conductor. Inside, the bus was filthily packed, noisy with a quarrel that had flared up between passengers in the front and smelt horrible now and again with someone farting away to glory.
A jovial pair, both sixtyish, chatted merrily about the problems of their lives. Their conversation progressed in the form of a Socratic dialogue about some common ill of the city, the condition of the roads or for the time being, the escalating price of onions.
`Onions are up, Potla,’ remarked one. He was a weather-beaten small man but he wore a freshly ironed dhoti and a clean milk-white shirt. A circle of hair bordered his shining baldness and this remembrance of past glory was given the care it deserved. But his face was wrinkled in a hundred places and his forearms were labouring with the folds and furrows of decades. This incongruity with his fresh dress gave him the aspect of an ancient tome, moth-eaten and dog-eared but bound carefully in leather. His gilded frame eyeglasses were like the gold lettering on its spine.
`No doubt the bus smells so horrible. What? You say they are up, but I thought they should be cheaper,’ Potla looked round him as if looking for consent. He had flowing white hair, oiled and combed back. Thick-rimmed spectacles with heavy post-cataract glasses framed his face and magnified the size of his eyes. So it seemed he saw more than his constitution - frail and modestly shod in a white shirt and old drainpipe trousers - could bear.
`They are, they are. Thirty a kilo, this morning. Don’t get so easily driven by contingencies…he pinched his nose to avoid the horrible smell of unclean bowels… That’s the great mistake we all commit. See what is there beyond and in between,’ the tome said.
`I see heads and heads and bags and legs and hear the tyres, the brakes and the horn. But tell me why is this. Why should the simple onion get out of the common man’s reach?’ Potla pondered.
`You shouldn’t ignore the garlic though. Keep a watch on garlic, it has been getting pricier too. Yet, it’s not as bad as the onion. Now, you tell me why is that? That the humble onion should fetch so high a price?’ the book in the gilded frame eyeglasses asked.
`Because here in the city we begin to turn away from the communists…’ Potla ventured undecided.
`Who did you vote for last time?’ the old volume shot back as if taking umbrage at Potla’s comment.
`Ah?’
`Come on, nobody is listening, tell me which party drew your valuable custom?’ the book pushed on.
`I remain faithful to the Marxists,’ Potla confessed at last.
‘There, you see. Your vote has not changed. Nor has mine. Nor has that of anyone worth mentioning, that I happen to know. And still you say that onion is up because we are turning away from the communists. Do you read the papers?’ the book began to show signs of belligerence.
`Yes two of them, one on weekdays, another on Sunday,’ Potla replied meekly.
`Have you seen what is happening to oil, I mean crude?’ the book asked.
`No. Not oil…Why?’ Potla looked lost, in deep waters.
`And still you say you read two newspapers. Anyway for your information, oil has been rising too,’ the book spelt casually.
`Ah! That’s bad?’ Potla was not sure where it was going this time. He pushed up his eyeglasses as if to refocus and his blown-up eyes played over the standing passengers. Pedro was among these and he was now near the middle of the bus. He was listening to this conversation and trying to prepare his mind for the meeting with Mrs Gaitonde. But it was difficult to concentrate in that crowd. `What sweet news could she have for us?’ Pedro wondered.
`Bad? It’s terrible news. One we should all be worrying about but nobody cares. Why, because we have enough foreign exchange stocked and we hope the great powers will do something soon? That’s our belief eh?’ the book had cooked up derision in his voice.
A wheel of the speeding tin can suddenly fell into some bad pothole and the whole vehicle lurched and shivered before the power of the engine pulled it out and it moved on. Standing passengers were thrown towards the front and were cursing aloud. In that sudden flurry Potla flew from his seat and landed on the lap of an elderly woman who shook him off as she would a fruit-fly, as soon as he had settled there. Profusely apologising he returned to his seat, brushing his trousers, nursing an injured arm and honour. The driver recklessly drove on.
`There, you leave your seat when I am coming to the important part. So little concentration you have,’ the old volume remarked, completely ignoring Potla’s plight.
`So we should be seriously concerned you say, that oil is sky high,’ Potla said at last.
`There you are! And that’s because the world’s only superpower is buying a lot of oil, though it has reserves for a generation. Now tell me why?’ the book asked.
`Why? Er…could be because it thinks prices will rise even further and so it is stocking up,’ Potla replied.
`There, there, you get it all mixed up again. It is stocking up true but not because of what you think. The price is rising because America is buying oil and America is buying oil because it is preparing for the Great War,’ the book had switched into a didactic tone.
`The Great War! What is that now? Is it reported in the papers?’ Genuine concern.
`The papers. Ha! Do you think they can see that far? Anyway…don’t waste my time, I have to get down at the next stop. The Great War is for the control of Asia,’ the book advised.
`America is preparing for the control of Asia!’ Potla looked sincere in his wonder.
`Exactly…and that’s why onion is up and oil is breaking all barriers,’ the book explained.
`Can you translate it all for me?’ Potla asked like an inquisitive student.
`Very few people know about it but it is true. The US has plans to set up new strategic bases in South Asia and in places near the Russian and Chinese borders. In our region the US has problems, if there is a need for quick mobilisation. This is the area where their Central command ends and the Pacific Command begins. Here, at the margins, both the commands have weaknesses and so they need new bases,’ the book advised.
`So Russians are buying onions to stock up for war and winter?’ Potla interjected without warning.
`There you get it wrong again. But you are very close…Only it is us, who are buying onions,’ the book disclosed proudly.
`I haven’t seen a single onion on my plate for the last three months. And you say…’ Potla remarked naively.
`Tch. Onions and chapatti, that’s the cheapest bet against an empty stomach. You know the strength of the Indian Armed Forces?’ the book went on irritated at the lack of enlightenment of Potla.
`About two and half million,’ Potla ventured.
`What happens when our government stocks up onions for two and half million fighting men?’ the book asked.
`Ah!’ Potla looked with awe at the book, `So we are secretly preparing to upset the American plan for the control of Asia! To be ready in case we come under attack from them or their friends in this region.’
`See. If you just exercise your mind you can make it all out,’ the book proffered.
`But the Chinese, they are on which side?’ Potla again looked confused.
At this point the bus began to slow down as it approached the next stop. The book hurriedly rose from his seat and began to scramble towards the door making his way through the crowd with his hands. `That we will discuss tomorrow,’ he said as he vanished among the packed human mass. As the bus-driver braked abruptly Potla again flew from his seat and landed on the elderly lady’s lap.

Published article. © 2008. All rights reserved.