Fair Fare

She pulled her dupatta tightly over her head. The cold air from the A/C chute was biting.
Her mind kept racing back. She looked out of the window. Perspiring motorists. Blinding heat.

“Will this bus go to Tambaram?” the old lady had asked,folds of age flapping about her bones. “I will take the bus to my village from there”.

“Yes”, she had replied, her voice sounding strange.

“But you may not be able to afford fare, this is a special bus”, her glance spoke these unsaid words.

Was she understood? Did her look say the things that wouldn’t come out her mouth? She searched for the old lady in the bus. If only she had had more tact.

Why do they have to make the fare so high? She didn’t need this A/C bus. The office is air-conditioned anyway. Why did it have to be her? Why hadn’t the old woman asked someone else?

She felt caged inside the Volvo bus. It was not her fault that she could afford this bus. It wasn’t her fault either that the old lady couldn’t. She shuffled uneasily in the cushioned seat.

The lady next to her was absently fingering the Ipod dial. What a marvel, this device! And what a model! She thought of her own shuffle, which paled in comparison.
Wish she could afford this one.

“One Tambaram, please”, someone asked the conductor. Her thoughts reeled back to the bus stop. Was the old woman still waiting for the bus? The heat outside was horrible. There was a slight jam. A poorer cousin of the Volvo was belching out excess passengers, who were hanging from all crevices.

Was the poor old thing being nailed by this human sledge-hammer? They should give free rides for the elderly. Especially the ones below the poverty line. She cursed the lawmakers of the land for their ineptitude.

She could have purchased the ticket for the old woman. Brainwaves like this occur only in retrospect.

She got up way ahead of her stop. Balancing in the standee-unfriendly bus drugged her hyper active conscience.

Getting out of the bus, she waited for a while to see if any other 21G would pass by. Nothing was visible as far as her line of sight could reach.

Her legs slowly joined the beat of the street. And she walked into yet another day at the office, her conscience lulled to sleep by the music of monotony.

Chak De, So they say !

I am really happy about India winning 'a world cup'. Even if it has been in a form of the game new to most of the contenders. And even if Lady Luck did more than smile upon the Boys in Blue (BIB).

But not long ago, an underdog of a sport, unfortunately one that was once India's pride in the commonwealth, did a heroic resurgence after decades. A bunch of non-descript Indians won the Asian hockey Cup, with less or mediocre media mileage than they deserved.

And unabashedly, the media pulled in a Bollywood flick, Chak De India to attribute this feat to.
Possibly scripted in the wake of the BIB's sad show at the Caribbean World Cup ODI's, this movie chose a Hockey Vs Cricket theme, perhaps for want of a Cinderella of Indian Sports. It could have been Tennis, Athletics, Kabaddi, or even seven stones and hopscotch, for all that you care. Although, it capitalized on the popular anti-BIB sentiment, I felt it was more of an Indianized version of Hollywood's Baseball- Movies. Of course, with a lot of babes for extra coverage.

Not to mention King Khan as the hard hitting coach.

Basking in the rare media attention thrown upon them, BIB's poor cousins, gratefully, nevertheless unnecessarily dedicated their hard earned victory to the actor and the movie.
Less was said of the win, in itself, and lesser of the people behind it.

Perhaps enthused by his name becoming resonant with one sport, King Khan made his presence felt at the Twenty20 Cup, where the BIBs salvaged a thrilling win. With our Baadshah of Bollywood, Chak De-ing them. Step aside, Mandira Bedi, you small screen belle!

Not to be outdone by tinseldom, our respected political brethren from all friendly and not so friendly states, jump into the fray announcing hefty sums of tax-payer's money as rewards to decorate the BIBs.

Our poor cousins, realise what a ride they had been taken for, blink back their tears at the scraps of media attention thrown to them, and begin a Satyagraha-of-sorts, that,sorry to say, looks more pathetic than anything else.

Despite not being a sporting aficionado, one can't remain blind to this incongruity. But, that’s what we, as a nation, have chosen to be. Becoming selectively amnesic, lapping up to the upcoming ODIs. Degradation of the sporting fan into the dastardly voyeurs who watched the Gladiators at the Colosseum.

Yet another classic instance of the Great Indian Apathy at play. (Pun –intended.)


An update :

• Another voice raised.
• Another feat that would go un-noticed.

“Do you have change for 100 Rupees?”

I planned to get ready early today. But by some celestial conspiracy, couldn’t make it on time.The last bus that stopped at my bus-stop had left. I caught an auto to the next stop. There was a bus due there in the next 5 mins. I tried to keep the fare ready, so that I need'nt waste time in paying for the auto.
I could not find my purse . I pulled out all the articles that populated my overloaded bag. All those things I had been searching for since time immemorial materialized out of the frantic exercise.
Rummaging through all the rubble, I fished out a 100 Rupee note and a 5 rupee coin, stuffed in some inner compartment of my bag, lying forgotten for days.

In compliance with Murphy’s laws, it so happened that the auto driver had to say that he did not have a ‘single paisa’ on him, me being his first savari for the day. I asked him to wait, got down and began asking all those fellow employees who were waiting for the bus. Some pretended not to hear, some shook their heads in denial even before I could address them. Some were deeply engaged in a telepathic conversation with the crow on the tree above. Most gave a very toothy grin, that made me feel that they were happy not to have been in my shoes. Perhaps they didn’t realise I was not begging but was just asking for change.

I would have asked atleast a dozen, when one lady finally felt it appropriate to check her purse before she answered. She had a fifty rupee note, which offered me. I took it and asked for name so that I could return it to her. She said “First pay the auto driver, I ll tell you afterwards”.

I went to the auto driver, imploring him to accept the 50 rupee note, and somehow come up with the change (as they do, sometimes). But Murphy struck again, by providing me with a “truthful” auto driver (a rare species), who genuinely did not have a ‘single paisa’ on him. Just then, someone else who was late and was hurrying for the bus came by. I stopped him with the same request. “Do you have change for 100 Rupees?” By now the question had become so trite to me, that I hardly expected an answer. That guy took out his purse and looked into it, despite his haste. All that he had were 100 Rupee notes. “How much do you want?”, he asked. The auto driver offered “hathu rupai saakamma” meaning “10 rupees is enough” (I was supposed to pay Rs 12). The good samaritian then fished out all the coins he had, and managed to bring out 5 rupees, that with my 5 rupee coin would make the needed 10. I thanked him profusely; I thanked the auto driver with equal fervour and gave the fare. I asked for my benefactor’s whereabouts, but he said “Its just 5 rupees, don’t bother returning”. I returned the 50 bucks to the lady, and thanked her for her genorosity. And waited for the bus. (Murphy got bored, I guess, the bus mercifully was late.)

This incident actually took me back to another point of time, where the bus I was travelling in, met with an accident. Many of us got injured. The rest, who were unharmed, simply got on to the next bus and went to office. The less injured had to help carry the severely wounded to a nearby polyclinic.
I was appalled at the lack of concern these people have towards their fellow employees. To think of the apathy, they would show towards rest of humanity, would leave me in shudders.

Although many corporates involve themselves in community service and the like, much of it is voluntary. I really feel that making this mandatory, would help sensitize these people ,with their minds as confined as their cubicles, to the world outside.

Train of Thought.....

I spent last weekend, in my hometown, the inundated coastal capital of Tamil Nadu, the land of enduring heritage. This epithetic phrase describing the state of my birth managed to catch my eye, when I was traveling alone on a day train to Chennai. I have seldom traveled on a day train, and alone, never. But, there are certain gains that traveling long distance on a train can provide. For instance, you have countless seconds to reflect upon your life. And then, if you are not the kind to feel uncomfortable about staring at your fellow passengers, and have absolutely no qualms at all about eavesdropping into the strains of conversation that come wafting through the confined atmosphere of the air-conditioned coach, then there’s a world of entertainment in store for you. The coach was half empty with just one person per each three-seater. There was this phirangi passenger who was indianised enough to choose “The Hindu” over the “The Times of India”, and got into my better books by this act of prudent discretion. Then there was this other person, tall and well built, so tall that I can now recollect the buttons of his shirt better than his face *. He boarded the train at Bangalore Cantonment and was such a nervous wreck by then, that he gulped down 1 liter of water in a fraction of a second. Jittery though, his maneuvers were swift enough to produce two more bottles of equal volume from his wondrously spacious backpack. This person too, got into my good books, by virtue of his preparedness**. From now on, I will refer to them as Messer’s Desi Foreigner (D.F) and Super Hyper (S.H) respectively. S.H was so vertically endowed that he was having a tough time, trying to ape my dexterity in fitting myself into a cozy position and dozing off. His long legs kept hitting the tea-tray, and I could feel the ripples of jealousy emanating from the other end of the coach. Self-satisfied at my upper hand, I presently slipped into a pleasant siesta. Meanwhile, D.F was poring over each ever printed space of The Hindu, dated December 9,2005, printed at Bangalore, India. Till about mid-noon, D.F was kept occupied by the stories that The Hindu published, S.H by his hyper active antics and futile fight with the tea-tray, and yours truly, by day dreams accompanied by “Strings” strumming “Duur” through the walkman. About mid-noon, S.H and D.F had some how struck a rapport at the restroom, and came storming into the coach, actively engaged in an animated conversation. Weird is the modus operandi which men use to make acquaintances. We, womenfolk would never comprehend the stratagem that unfolds in a restroom, or over a puff of fag.
My eavesdropping instincts aroused by this flurry of activity in the sonic realm, began focusing on just this dialogue, filtering out the household chatter of the old couple behind me. I happened to gather that D.F was a traveler of sorts, attracted by the mystic east, exploring Japan, the Far East and now India in search of the truths of life and beyond. He was going to Chennai for some event organized by Jiddu Krishnamurthy (J.K) foundation, and was concerned about the Fanoos stirring gruel in the Bay of Bengal. S.H, happened to be a I.T professional, who had traveled the west, on account of “On-Site” trips and was very much a Chennaiite in his phony accent. The conversation took a philosophical bend, when S.H pronounced that “If you have to endure the cyclone, you will have to, whether its close to Chennai or Nagapattinam”.. They went on to discuss about science, pseudo science, metaphysical fields, their equations, Japanese philosophy, The Shiva lingam, its significance, The form of Nataraja.. so on and so forth.. What made it compelling to listen to was that D.F was arguing on the side of metaphysics and spirituality while S.H was insisting on the power of science.. S.H got agitated at points, as all Chennai ites do when they argue, and D.F had to patiently pull him back on track with a demure “Lets discuss one thing at a time”.. Yours truly, had to lie low in the seat, ears conked up like two tiny antennae, to avoid being heard chuckling.. It was first-class entertainment, till this happened…

S.H: “Man hasn’t changed since his conception. The basic genome remains the same. Science has ample proof to this”.
D.F: (Blank)
Yours truly: (Stifling a giggle, mutters) “These phirangis look really blank when they are blank; their white skin looks bleached…at least we can pretend to be thinking of the next law of gravity.”
D.F: (Still Blank)
S.H: (Triumphant) “ Science and argument can prove or disprove anything”. “If it isn’t capable of that, then it is pseudo-science”.
D.F: (Still Blank)
Yours truly: (Thumping a fist in the air) “Now come on D.F, buck up, this has to be countered...”
D.F: (The light returning to his eyes, says in all bluntness) “I don’t believe that”
Yours truly: (Turning Back) Heeeehhhaaa hheeee haaaa heee haaa.. (Girls can giggle at anything)
D.F and S.H : (Glare in unison).
Yours truly: (Turning red, rushes out to the restroom).
Curtains Down.
After this fiasco, I dutifully shifted from the aisle seat, and started looking out of the window. The train was in Tamil Nadu, and for a change, bridges here seemed to serve a purpose, the ravines and rivulets actually carrying water. The recent rains had caused a sudden spurt of greenery and window presented a verdant panorama. It was twilight, and the setting sun, was bidding a goodbye to the flora. They were raising their heads in turn as a last salute to the provider of nourishment and life. As the train swept past the wilderness, paddy fields came into view. Flooded beyond recognition by the cyclone’s fury, head-heavy rice plants were floating as debris in rain water. Farmers working in the not-so-affected fileds, while those in the mini-lakes sitting over the now useless bunds with drooping heads, and heavy heart. “Why, oh lord, why this injustice..” Wanted to lash out at humanity.. “When the plants can thank and reverie their nourisher, why not we”.. Every walk of life thrives on the sweat of these men, and yet they suffer.. Every body’s job ultimately earns money.. Money to feed your mouth, money to satiate your gluttony, while the one who actually toils to feed your tummy, is driven to commit suicide.. Where would you earn your bread when there is no bread to sell??
I heard S.H harping “India isn’t like before, lots of foreign investment is flowing in, the economy is becoming very very techno-dependent”… I felt a white anger seething under my skin… why are we hell-bent on getting rid of the agro-based tag?? Is it an albatross strung around the country’s neck?? If all of us want a white collar job, refuse to put our feet into the muddy fields, what use would all the gold as foreign exchange be of?? Why do farming families migrate to the cities, why is there a mass exodus?? Why cant a farmer go to sleep peacefully at night, if his son happens to show interest in pursuing his profession?? Their livelihood is inherently vulnerable to the hands of fate and the whims of the skies. Why doesn’t anyone even bother to alleviate their burden, modernize their processes, and improve their lot?? Why is so much invested in Six Sigma, Lean management, and process enhancements when people have to bleed their lives to feed you?
Experimenting entrepreneurs are devising ways to tap the rural market for mobile phones.. The Government is trying to regulate the profit the corporates would make by exploiting the exploited.. Why did we stop with the Green revolution and the white revolution.. why didn’t we progress beyond that??
While I was charged up with such thoughts, the old man behind me yelled “ Arey Baarissss..” in typically accented Hindi.. It was drizzling outside.. I had imagined the wet sight was due to the impotent tears that could ve possibly welled up in my eyes at the plight of the bread-breeders of the nation…
S.H and D.F were exchanging phone numbers and e-mail ids.. S.H was suggesting some books on http://www.amazon.com/ to D.F. D.F was sincerely noting them down. D.F saying something about he being a zoologist and his research in the Savanaahs.. S.H using the chance to refresh his high school geography…
Yours truly calling up her daddy, asking whether he had reached the railway station to receive her, giving minute by minute updates on her location as the train approached Chennai.. The smells of the city obliterating the perfume of the villages left behind.. D.F and S.H back to discussing the rain.., S.H advising D.F to postpone his return journey in case there are floods.. Yours truly getting nervous and calling up daddy dear to hear of Fanoos’ fancies.. The train reaches Chennai.
And Life goes on…

Notes:
* : Not that its worth mentioning, but I happen to be just short of being a midget. But that is an achievement when your mom is less than 5 feet and your dad just above five.
**: was appreciating S.H’s preparedness, cos I myself forgot to bring water from home and had to be finicky*** about the bottled water that Southern Railways provided.
***: finicky ness courtesy: The Tamil movie Anniyan.