Day-time bus journeys — the constant chatter of kids, the explosion of aromas from a dabba that's just been opened and the bustle of humanity… . Leaning back on a comfortable seat after a family holiday in Bangalore, I look on happily as the tinted windows yield gorgeous views of the landscape en route to Coimbatore. Greenery, patches of groundnut, fields bobbing with flowers and happy village urchins frolicking about without a care in the world.
Amma and I undertook a similar trip, a decade-and-a-half ago. It was a journey meant to mark the beginning of another. October 1996 — we boarded a bus from Coimbatore to Bangalore. For my betrothal. What was to have been a noisy, family affair had been pared down to a temple visit in Bangalore. My fiancé's grandfather was unwell.
Appa had to stay back with his octogenarian father, and so, mother and daughter set out on a journey expected to take eight hours. The bus left Coimbatore at 8.30 p.m. with a promise to drop us in misty Bangalore at the crack of dawn. Somewhere near midnight, we sensed that the bus had slowed down, but went right back to sleep.
At 6.30, my portable pink clock screeched out the morning alarm. There was none of Bangalore's nip in the air, no overwhelming need to bury one's head under a blanket — we were still in Tamil Nadu! Apparently, the bus hadn't moved at all after midnight. A bridge had collapsed near Salem with buses stranded on either side.
Some of the smarter bus operators swapped passengers and returned the way they came. The rest waited, uncertain. This was the pre-mobile phone era and PCOs were few and far between in villages. At least two families in Bangalore and Coimbatore were worried sick over a missing mother and daughter. At dawn, we had still not moved. Pangs of hunger brought out the chips and mysurpa packed for the function. We comforted ourselves that no one would mind. They turned out to be our lunch and evening snack too!
At 9.30 a.m., when we should have been at the temple, we were still stationary. Passengers disembarked and walked restlessly about. The conductor and driver went into a huddle and announced there was a route through the hills and forests through Rayakottai and Palacode. We could take that provided we paid extra for fuel. Everyone was happy to chip in; if all went well, we could reach Bangalore in three hours or so. The driver eased the bus into a bumpy forest road. It turned cool, and there was a musty, leafy smell in the air. All around were trees. Birds shrilled loudly, and the bus grew silent. We were lost but we were at least moving. By now the grumpy passengers were resigned to their fate. They turned into friendly uncles and aunties. Then, we stopped again! Apparently, other drivers before ours had the same brainwave and had made a beeline for this route, and now there was a traffic snarl. Grumpiness returned, and for the next three hours, we stared at the same trees!
I fretted and fumed, and my mom quoted G.K. Chesterton: “An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered…”
The fuel was running out. Some more money collection and one more diversion later, the endless trees gave way to groundnut fields. Farm workers clad in colourful saris waved and offered us groundnuts still wet with the red earth. On any other day the prospect of chips, mysorepa and groundnuts would have been a singular treat. Not today.
Some hours later, we reached Krishnagiri, for our first cup of tea for the day. The creases on my mother's face relaxed and grumpiness in the passengers gave way to relieved smiles as they rushed to make calls at the lone telephone booth near the tea stall.
There was more traffic on the Krishnagiri-Bangalore route. But, no one minded. The angry honking of horns sounded like music after the quiet of the forests. Around 6 p.m., after a whole 21-and-a-half hours on the bus, a board said we'd reached Dairy Circle. My worried fiancé waited to receive us. We smiled tiredly and handed over the empty packets of chips and mysorepa.
The betrothal? Never took place. It's been 14 years since the wedding, though!
