All AboardA Chapter by Lekhak All Aboard
The Ride
Chapter 1- All Aboard Three buses parked end to end, by the side
of the highway, I pick the one on the end. It’s a large Mitsubishi coach,
probably built back in the late 80’s, driven in Japan for a while, and then
retired from service and shipped off to Nepal in the mid 90’s. This is what,
back in the days, would have qualified as a tourist coach. It’s much larger
looking than the more common TATA coaches of Indian make, and as I hope,
comfortable. I approach the coach from
the front and, as is the custom in Nepal, it has painted onto its white metal
body, the names of Lord Shiva and Ganesh- both Hindu deities. One, the overseer
of destruction, and the other his son, the bringer of luck, are both summoned
to sit between the large windscreen and the square headlights. A single line of
shiny plastic bunting of red, orange, and yellow runs on the forehead along the
top of the windscreen. On the white bumper below is a black license plate with
white registration numbers in Nepali. To the left of the plate is, in medium
red fonts in Nepali, and what translates as " ‘Mother’s Blessing.’ To the
right, in large black fonts, this time in English - ‘SPEED.’ As a kid I used to
be certain that ‘SPEED’ is to reassure passengers that this particular coach will
get you there quicker. Trucks and buses
in Nepal have all sorts of slogans displayed by their owners- religious,
patriotic, emotional, witty, philosophical- I see them all, now. A boy and a man are standing by the
entrance. “Where do you need to go Dai? “, says the
boy. He looks too young, no more than fourteen. “Butwal,” I say, hoping he sorts everything
out. “It goes, it goes Dai. This bus is headed
all the way to Nepalgunj.” “Do you have a good seat Bhai?” “Lots. Choose as you like.” “Ram Dai is our ticket agent, he’ll arrange
your ticket.” He says pointing to the man standing with his arms folded. He is
tall for a Nepali, with a fair complexion and a short hair drenched in gel. He
has pimple marks etched around his nose and looks like someone approaching
mid-thirties, but his smart attire and the vitality in his face makes him look
like he just got married and has everything going for him. “Come on in Bhai, I’ll show you the seats.”
I follow Ram and enter the coach. “Bhai, come down further. I’ve got a window seat for you right in the middle of the bus.” I walk down the aisle. I see that the bus
is already filled with a mix of passengers that makes me realise I also boarded
a pick-up truck, a school bus, and a local service. A hawker stands behind the driver’s seat with
his offerings tied up in a shabby polymer sheet. A man sits on the side seat, next
to the door, his backbone hunching on his walking stick. A woman has a toddler
on her lap, and a ladies bag on the empty window seat in the first row behind
the driver. An adolescent boy, it seems,
sits with his head bowed before his world, next to his father. Most of them are
seated towards the front, some around the entrance, and some in the aisle. As I
walk down the aisle I am looking at Ram but I count a few more passengers
through my peripheral vision. “Here, seat no forty-five, Do you like it
Bhai?” “Yes. How much? ” “Three hundred and fifty, Bhai “ “Dai,
can’t you arrange a better price” “Bhai, I’m giving it to you cheaply. Ok
three hundred done! “ “Here, take this,” I hand over some notes. He counts the money quickly. “Ok Bhai, the
bus will leave immediately” “Ok ok dai.” Ram turns around and exits the coach. My seat is a firm foam covered with a maroon
fabric. The buttock housing has caved in and the polyester looks as if someone
removed it and left it out in a misty morning. I place my sea-blue duffle bag
on the aisle seat and sit by the window. The seat rises a few inches above my
head and just about encloses me from other passengers. There isn’t enough
breathing room for my knees, unless I lower them and invade the seat ahead. The
back of the seat before me is close to my face and I find that I have to lie on
my back against my seat to not strain my eyes. Seeing that the seat behind me
is empty, I slide open the window fully and pop my head out. Jeeps and
motorcycles are whizzing by. A truck filled with plump bags of cement, and
another laden with steel construction rods poking out the back are heading out
of Kathmandu. In the other direction, trucks with heaps of sand, soft fresh
brown felled logs, and another crammed with innocent looking water buffaloes
enter Kathmandu triumphantly. I see a peddler pacing himself along the window
squinting through the tinted glass. He has a bottle of mineral water clutched
in each hand. He parades his product by holding it up over his head close to
the windows. He scurries up to me. “Do you need water
Dai? “ “How much is it?” “Only twenty-five rupees Bhai.” “Give me one please.” “Do you want some anti-vomiting tablets, or
some for dizziness?” “It’s alright Dai,” I slip him some change.
He walks back to the carriages ahead. “Water, water” “Water, water” “Didi! Didi!......“ His words get muffled
by an orange truck passing by and blowing a deafening horn. “Ta two teeet “ “Ta two teeet “ “Ta two teeeeet “ I retreat back in and extract my digital SLR camera pack from my duffle bag. I lock the bag again with a small gold coloured Chinese lock with a silver ear. The lock comes with a key the size of my thumb-nail. I bought it from a corner shop this morning on the way to the bus station. The shop was selling bigger, scarier locks, but I didn’t want to look paranoid. The thought that someone could still walk off with the bag crossed my mind, and that brought with it a feeling of a vain attempt to maintain control. Years ago, I never locked my bags and do not remember losing any item. But living abroad for five years, I find the need to stay secure, lock everything up. I think it’s the sensible thing to do, but also feel strange as nothing seems to have changed and the odds of getting my valuables stolen, I feel, are still the same. I also have a black mini backpack which holds my external hard-drive to store photos, a phone charger in case I can access a socket, a half-read novel, a pack of cigarettes, and twelve thousand in cash. I am hoping to give three thousand to a lady in Butwal. She looked after me as a kid while my parents were away. Since I moved to the capital city for my studies at the age of eight, I have only patches of information about her. I’ve had to fill the gaps myself. Last I remember, she was married off by my grandparents to a local carpenter living in the outskirts of Butwal. Another piece of information I have of her is that he drank a lot and was always quarrelling with her. I also remember catching the news of her having a daughter, but I don’t know how long ago that was. She had a cataract in her left eye and my grandmother’s razor-sharp voice still echoes through my memory- “Who? Who will marry you?” Perhaps it’s my grandmother’s apathy that has
blessed my caretaker with this small fortune. I realise though that with my
lack of money skills I could end up giving her nothing. I don’t want to give
her too much, but too little and she might think of me as a cheap person, or
that I think lowly of her. Being away for many years, and the recent dramatic
inflation, I am having to guess that three thousand is the right amount. Simple
amount, not much for me, and I hope not too little for her. I place my backpack on top my duffle bag
and let it be. Five men walk into the bus. All thin, dark, and speaking Hindi.
They must be from the mid-western plains, or from somewhere in Uttar Pradesh
region across the border, perhaps the city of Gorakhpur. They look like skilled
migrant labourers and are travelling without any baggage. This lightness
reflects in their faces and tells me they will be returning to Kathmandu soon. One
of them looks slightly emaciated and reminds me of a painter who painted our
house in Butwal. He had left his pot cooking over a wooden fire, unattended. I
went on and added a handful of wooden shavings to his recipe. My grandmother
found out and offered him some of our dinner and my grandfather laughed
thunderously while sipping his rice wine. The slightly younger looking among them is the
last to enter and carries a small trunk. I can just barely make out the dark
green colour with small yellow floral patterns. The rust sprawling on the metal
surface makes it appear almost dark brown from a distance. A black metal Indian
lock runs through a metal clasp securing the trunk. It sits next to the long
supple hand holding the rectangular silver handle, also freckled with
rust. Like Mr Speed, this trunk too has
seen many years. It has its own distinct character and, I feel, a special value
for its owner. “Clunk, clunk, clunk,” they all march quickly past the thick aluminium flooring with subtle diamond shapes etched along the aisle. I’m still facing forward but can hear them discussing which seats to take. I remove my camera from its bag and browse through the pictures I’ve taken so far. I delete the blurred ones worrying that I might not have enough space when a good opportunity suddenly presents itself. The conductor boy walks in. He looks down
the middle of the aisle and walks past me while calling out to one of the
Indian men. “Brother!” “Brother! Can I store that trunk in the boot?” “Should I take it back?” says one to his
friends. “Hey, leave it here” another mumbles. “It’s ok, it’s ok, put it in the back. It
won’t come in the way.” “At least take the radio out.” One of them walks off with the trunk following
the conductor. The conductor, on his way, stops by my row. “Dai, can I put your luggage in the boot as
well.” “Do I have to?” “The bus might get packed if we get
passengers along the way,” he warns me. “Take the big bag, I need this one,” I move
my backpack under my seat. Ram walks in and chats to the conductor. He
then moves along the aisle counting the empty seats. “Friends! Can I put you all in the last
seat, that way you can all sit together in one line.” I turn back and see the five Indians spread in three rows. Four of them fill two consecutive rows on the opposing aisle and one sits in the window seat, three rows behind me. The painter stands up and leans over the seat in front and says to his friend in a celebratory tone - “Come on then, let’s all sit together.” They all still look hesitant to move, and look to each other. “Should we?” says the one behind me. They all shuffle and move to fill the last row which has six consecutive seats. I sit back on my seat and wander back to school-days when the last row, usually farthest from the teachers, was the most fun place on a bus trip. Those seats empowered students filling them with some courage and bad intentions. I remember a particular incident when students were heading home for the summer. The bus I was on was passing by the local village playground. A handful of young village men were running for the same football. A senior from our school, the alpha male, was sitting on the last window seat with his arm dangling out the window. The bus slowed momentarily near the playground and the men stopped and looked into our bus, their heads slowly following the buses course. The senior turned his head and on seeing the men, moved his head forward only slightly out the window and, when the bus drew closest, he expressionlessly said " “Oie!, beggars.” The bus drove away slowly, and the villagers had a blank expression on their faces, still trying to decipher the unexpected piece of information. Our boarding school was located in a remote area next to the village. We found out after returning from our break that the villagers, in reprisal for the offence, had cut off the school water supply that was fed from a nearby stream, for a month. The teachers who had stayed in their cottages during the holidays were interrogating witnesses from the bus. What I still most vividly and fondly remember is Mr Alpha’s utterly bored expression, without any sense of urgency or desire, when he uttered those two powerful words.
Ram finishes counting the empty seats and
walks out. I retrieve my cigarette packet from the bottom front chain pocket of
my backpack and head out. The conductor is sitting on the entrance stairs
humming a song. I walk past him and stand right outside the entrance so that if
anyone walks out with my backpack I can snatch it back. “What’s your name Bhai?” I ask the
conductor. “Bijay” “How many years?” “Thirteen Dai” Don’t you go to school? " I think of asking
him. But the relevancy of the question diminishes so quickly that it now seems
naive and stupid to have even thought of it. I also see the conversation ending
with me having to provide advice or consolation. I don’t want to do either. Bijay does not at all look bothered,
however. His calm and settled look makes me think that no matter what I asked
him, he could answer, without wasting a single breath. “Where is your home Bhai?” I ask him “It’s in Chitwan, Dai“ “Will you visit on the way?” “I want to. But it’s not possible” “Don’t you get followed by memories from
home?” “Sometimes, Dai. I take this route most of
the time and every time the bus passes by the exit for Chitwan, I imagine
myself at home and I console myself.” “Who’s at home?” “My mother and younger sister” “Do you talk to them on the phone?” “There is no phone in my home Dai. I’ve
called the nearby village shop before, but it’s not convenient.” He looks to
his left towards some tea shops just as he’s finishing his sentence. I can see
Ram in the distance motioning him. “Come drink some tea Bhai” Bijay hurriedly jogs away, jumping over a
large puddle and overcoming smaller ones along the way. Seeing Bijay hop and
skip to the tea shops makes me forget our conversation. He looks like one of
the kids that will be heading off to school this morning. Looking at the guys in charge relax, I too
am tempted to get some food. I know that the tea shops sell puri tarkari and
haluwa, my favourite Nepalese breakfast. But I don’t think there’s enough time
for a slow eater like me. I look at the time on my phone- Seven-fifteen. I light my cigarette and take a long drag.
No burning sensation, I’m heading towards a satisfying cigarette. It’s much
stronger than the roll-ups I use abroad. I’m close to the start of Tribhuwan
Highway in Kalanki from where my descent down to the plains will begin. It’s
the feeling of approaching the momentary rise at the peak of the hills before
spiralling down that signals this. I’m standing on what looks like a derelict
plot of land. The bustle of buses heading out of Kathmandu will fill it up soon
bringing some purpose to this permanent makeshift. I remember the careless patchy
coatings of diesel and slick oil on its surface during dry seasons. But its
monsoon and so the coating must have seeped into the layers below concealing
its past. Mr Speed is a few feet from the highway and I can feel the stiffer
compressed earth underneath with gravels occasionally poking out below my feet.
The fresh updrafts from the hills come dancing in bursts replenishing my lungs.
This is occasionally mixed with dust and diesel fumes from the passing traffic.
The sky is clear with the cold deep blue giving way to the warm light yellow rising
up from the hills. Some trucks have risen from their slumbers before the sun
and their coughs can be heard as they climb up the slope. This ordinary morning
fills me with calm and peace. I don’t know if a tourist standing outside a shop
across the road feels the same, because the serenity I feel has a lot to do
with my childhood, from when I made the trip with my family during long school
holidays. It rained the last night and this brings
out the raw scent of the earth. There isn’t a garbage heap in sight here, so I
take a deep breath without holding anything back. I alternate between puffs of
smoke and gulps of fresh air. It’s a good combination. I smoke right to the tip
of the spotted gold filter. I always do that, leave nothing. I think of friends
who smoke a few puffs and toss away more than half of the cigarette. I could
never do that. I am certain that this is because of my mother’s values. “Do not waste, its bad Karma” Or “Do you know how hard it is to earn one
rupee?” as my mother used to say. Violently opposed at first, and then as I
realize now, accepted at some point in adulthood. Now I embody my mother’s
values, I am her now. I can now feel the hot amber through my fingers so I flick the stub aiming for the large
puddle Bijay jumped over; it lands on the edge of my ashtray. I look back
across the road and see the Caucasian tourist with a backpack. He’s looking
over to the buses. Let’s pass some time I think. I skip through a few puddles
and wait for an unnecessarily large gap in the passing traffic and run across.
You never know in Nepal, I think to myself. A car, motorcycle, even a truck
might come out of nowhere. I walk up a few paved stairs and pass the tall
tourist standing on the top. A woman is standing square before me; it’s a one
room shop. “What do you need Bhai?” I was expecting supermarket aisles to see
what’s on offer, but what I get is the checkout. “Chewing gum Didi " Wrigley’s” “Bhai, you look like a foreigner” “Do I Didi?” I hand her a note. “Here, please take this
Didi” I drop the gum down my long side pocket
that runs down to just below my knees. “Change, Bhai” I look around, and spot a tray of Japanese
super glue hanging from a polythene string running along the rolled up shutter. “How much is this?” “35 rupees” “Give me one please” She tears the glue pack from the perforated
line. I pay for it. “Where are you going?” “Butwal Didi” “This tourist, I think, wants to go to
Butwal as well. My son was asking him earlier” “Oh, ok, I see” I look to him and think maybe I could start
a conversation. I hesitate. Then I think " I’ve lived abroad for five years and
met people from all parts of the world. What’s the point of coming to Nepal and
talking to a tourist. What is there to learn from that. He looks European but
is shaved bald and has a long beard. I can see a book with a picture of a tree
, in the side net pocket of his backpack.
Bible, Quran, Torah? He might be a religious fundamentalist, but I can’t
tell exactly which one. He turns around while I’m in the middle of this thought
and says " “Namaastay” “Zo you speak aa English?” “Yes. You’re from Germany” “Ya” “Where you headed to?” “Bay-ra-waa” “What?” “Bay-ra-waa, I go to Loombeeny from there” “Oh ok, Bhairawa, I see” “Are you a Buddhist?” “Vwell, I fuant to be” “cool” “Are you a Buddhist?” he asks hoping, frowning
curiously. “My family is a mix of Hindu and Buddhist,
I follow it sometimes. If I had to practice one, I would be a Buddhist, it’s
less fuss” “Good Good” “Well I’m going to Butwal which comes just
before Bhairawa. I’m taking that big white bus. It’s more expensive but more
comfortable” I say pointing to Mr Speed. “Ya. Looks good to me. I don’t mind paying
more. I’m waiting for my friends, I call the hotel, they should akhaive soon.” “Oh. Ok” “I thought you were a Jew for once, looking
at your beard. But looking at your shaved head I thought you might be a Muslim.” “Ya! Really” he says with slight disbelief. “Vell I know monks shave their head, so I
thought I should too as I visit Loombeeny. My beard, it Zust grew, Zi like it.”
He says this stroking his beard and bobbing his head back and forth. I nod and smile at him in reply. He gives me a ‘you know’ by raising both
his shoulders momentarily while tilting his chin slightly. “Alright, I need to go, the bus might leave.
Nice talking to you” “Ok. Enjoy” He nods to acknowledge the end
to our conversation. I walk past him, down the steps, and cross
the road. I feel better for having talked to him. I think about my
pre-conversation analysis - ‘What’s the point? Etc, and now see it as a logical
fortification of my excuse to not having to speak. Why? I don’t know. But I do
know that I might resort to such fortification tactics again during this
journey. A classic Nepalese poem comes to mind as
I’m sitting on my seat. I remember reading it in school " “Rivers” It roughly translates to " Rivers that run between, with
not a bridge in sight, must be crossed. Some run silently, some like
thunder. Daring you to cross, it sits on a
bed of fear When one with, however slightest
faith, in the seemingly unforgiving
forces of nature, crosses it, finds oneself in a place closer
to home. However, within the flick of an
eye, one arrives at the banks of a new river, and finds, that it too must be
crossed.
I never thought much about this poem back
in school. But now it rises like a Phoenix from the ashes of my long forgotten
values. I have a small brown leather-bound journal with an elephant logo on the
front. I remove it from my backpack. The journal has soft thick cream coloured
hand-made papers stitched in bundles. The strong smell of the leather permeates
the pages and fills the book for now. I note down the poem and think of adding
it to a short piece of writing I started a while ago. I am thinking of sending
the writing to a friend in Greece. I am hoping she likes it. I wrap the journal
with the attached leather string and return it to my backpack. There is still no sight of Bijay or Ram, so
I head to the front. I see Bijay on the driver’s seat fiddling with the radio.
He looks tiny before the large round steering. “Bijay Bhai.” He’s trying to get onto a
station. “Bhai!” much louder this time “Yes dai” He glances back “What’s happening? When are we leaving?” “We’ve almost left Dai. Guruji is having
breakfast, once he comes we’re off,” He calls the driver Guruji, as is the
custom in Nepal. “Any more passengers left?” “None Dai” “What’s the matter, radio not working?” “Yes dai, I feel like listening to some
songs” “Doesn’t Guruji keep cassettes?” “No Dai. He doesn’t listen to music much” “Even if he does he prefers Hindu hymns or
folk songs” “What do you like?” “Dikchiki-Dikchiki” He says moving his head
from side to side “What Dikchiki-Dikchiki?” “Item songs Dai, I like dancing, and you?”
I think he’s referring to latest Bollywood dance numbers. “I can’t dance Bhai. I like classics from Gopal
Yonzon, Narayan Gopal, and also pop songs from the 90s.” “I’m sure you listen to English songs Dai,
you don’t look like you would listen to old songs.” He smiles and mocks me. “I was bred in Nepal Bhai, why wouldn’t I
listen to Nepali” Bijay catches a Hindi dance number and
moves closer to the speaker. He’s trying to get hold of the rhythm. He starts
feeling the rhythm. He drums on the hard plastic façade above the stereo
compartment. I see a head outside the driver’s door. “Thang Thang Thang” “Thang Thang Thang” “Bhai” I tap Bijay on his shoulder and point
to the door with my eyebrows. “Guruji, are we going?” says Bijay
stretching across the seat and rolling down the window. “Yes, we must leave. I heard there’s a
queue ahead.” I can see two young European tourists next
to him. “They’ve missed their bus to Pokhara,
they’re going with us. We’ll catch their bus at Mugling. Show them their seats
Bhai” “Yes Guruji” “Camin camin I gibb eww phantastic sit”. Bijay says in English getting down via the driver’s door. I head back towards my seat. Guruji starts the engine and gives it a few
revs. Gently at first, a low pitched rumble in the belly. Then a long hard rev
" BRMMMMMMMM. Mr Speed comes alive. I can feel the energy travel through the thin
sole of my sandals right up to my face. Patches of dust brought in by
passengers wake up, and an orange plastic chocolate wrapper gets blurred on top
of the aluminium covered floor. I sit on my seat and can feel the window and
metal frame humming. I cannot tell exactly what, but they are all singing about
the life of Mr Speed. The two new tourists sit behind me. They
look worried. I would too if I were them. Kathmandu with all its lack of rules,
printed time-tables, contact telephone numbers, emergency helplines, looks
chaotic and haphazard. But stay a while, without wishing otherwise, and you
begin to see that there is a system of people here. Sometimes they work for
you, sometimes they don’t. If they do all is fine for you, if they don’t all is
still fine for them. Knowing what I know about Nepal, I think they should be
fine. They might have to buy new tickets, and get there at a later time, but
are unlikely to get stranded for too long. A guy on the row across me puts on his
earphone and leans on the window sill. It reminds me of my decision not to
carry my mp3 player. I sit back on my seat and gaze through the open window.
The shopkeeper Didi is still standing on the checkout. The German guy is still
waiting for his friends. Bijay is standing on the door. He slams the bus with
the cushion of his palm in a familiar rhythm- “Dhak-Dhak Dhak-Dhak” “Dhak-Dhak Dhak-Dhak” “Let’s go let’s go Guruji” I hear the axle creaking and announcing our
departure to his co-workers. The tyres bid farewell to the cosy wet mud like a
grateful guest. Mr Speed is slightly off balance as he climbs the side of the
road, then as he catches more of the tar he gradually settles and finally
levels. Guruji hits the gas and we’re off.
© 2013 LekhakReviews
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