The road to my village: getting ready
Come May and the much awaited holidays would finally arrive. As always, my sister and I would be eager to go to our village. However, we, as kids (especially my sister), did not like the journey very much. I vividly remember many tiny details of those long hours in the bus and the preparation before the journey.
;
My father would set the alarm at 4:45 am. I would be the third to wake up, after my father and mother. The mosquito net would already have been folded unlike other days. I feel very lazy for a while in the morning cold, wishing to go back into the warm blanket, but somehow would drag myself to the verandah. For a moment I wonder if I should use the same amount of tooth paste or a bit less than usual(since I woke up earlier), but I decide on the same amount as ususal. The freshness of the colgate toothpaste feels very weird. The water for bath is also not hot enough for the early morning chill, since the same immersion heater was used to heat water for the all of us. A brisk bath and I change into some decent clothes which my father would have pressed the night before. My mother would get me some warm milk which I would reluctantly drink since I hate the taste of milk and rather prefer milk with Complan. My parents, in the mean time, sip their tea in a hurry while my sister gets ready. My sister right away refuses to drink any milk since she is afraid she might get sick in the bus. My mom reminds me to keep a handkerchief in my pocket. As we are all ready and set to leave my mom asks for one last time if we have our tooth brushes with us. We would start off with the luggage. My dad would lock the house and double check the lock. We would proceed towards the bus stand.
I always wondered why it was called bus stand. I prefered to call it a bus station on the lines of a railway station. My father usually carried the big Aristocrat suitcase and the brown air bag. My mom carried the smaller VIP suitcase and I would carry the blue airbag. My sister would not carry anything, and I have protested for this many times but to no avail. Usually my father led the way and the rest of us followed about 5 metres behind him. Most of the times we would be the only ones (apart from the stray dogs) on the roads at that time. A few women would be seen spraying water mixed with cow dung in front of their houses to ward off evil spirits. We would walk to the main road, where my father would call two rickshaws and we would all get into them.
The rickshaw wallahs would gently pedal the rickshaws as the sun just begins to make its presence felt. As the rickshaws roll we see steaming idli containers in the road side tiffin stalls, daily labor gathering in front of the Panchabati Gramya Bank for the day's work, milkmen and newpaper wallahs breezing past on their cycles, and municipality workers hesitantly sweeping the streets. Soon we reach the bus stand. My father pays Rs 10 to each of the rickshaw wallahs and then we stride into the bus stand with our respective baggage. We wait in the lounge for the orange bus (the worst of the lot). Don't confuse the lounge to be some confortable place. It is just a shelter with a few concrete benches, on which most probably some one would be sleeping. The floor is littered with paper and ground nut shells. My sister already begins to feel sick and starts to lean on my mother. The pan shops do brisk business at this time- newspapers, goli sodas, pans, cigarettes, and maybe biscuits. The bus finally arrives. My father rushes towards the bus to reserve some seats for us while my sister and I tag along to my mother. He comes back after some time and picks up some luggage. We all proceed towards the orange bus, avoiding the muddy puddles all along. Finally we get on to the bus where my father leads us to the seat where he had put his handkerchief.
We are all set to start our journey on the orange bus. And the story of the orange bus ... some other time.
;
My father would set the alarm at 4:45 am. I would be the third to wake up, after my father and mother. The mosquito net would already have been folded unlike other days. I feel very lazy for a while in the morning cold, wishing to go back into the warm blanket, but somehow would drag myself to the verandah. For a moment I wonder if I should use the same amount of tooth paste or a bit less than usual(since I woke up earlier), but I decide on the same amount as ususal. The freshness of the colgate toothpaste feels very weird. The water for bath is also not hot enough for the early morning chill, since the same immersion heater was used to heat water for the all of us. A brisk bath and I change into some decent clothes which my father would have pressed the night before. My mother would get me some warm milk which I would reluctantly drink since I hate the taste of milk and rather prefer milk with Complan. My parents, in the mean time, sip their tea in a hurry while my sister gets ready. My sister right away refuses to drink any milk since she is afraid she might get sick in the bus. My mom reminds me to keep a handkerchief in my pocket. As we are all ready and set to leave my mom asks for one last time if we have our tooth brushes with us. We would start off with the luggage. My dad would lock the house and double check the lock. We would proceed towards the bus stand.
I always wondered why it was called bus stand. I prefered to call it a bus station on the lines of a railway station. My father usually carried the big Aristocrat suitcase and the brown air bag. My mom carried the smaller VIP suitcase and I would carry the blue airbag. My sister would not carry anything, and I have protested for this many times but to no avail. Usually my father led the way and the rest of us followed about 5 metres behind him. Most of the times we would be the only ones (apart from the stray dogs) on the roads at that time. A few women would be seen spraying water mixed with cow dung in front of their houses to ward off evil spirits. We would walk to the main road, where my father would call two rickshaws and we would all get into them.
The rickshaw wallahs would gently pedal the rickshaws as the sun just begins to make its presence felt. As the rickshaws roll we see steaming idli containers in the road side tiffin stalls, daily labor gathering in front of the Panchabati Gramya Bank for the day's work, milkmen and newpaper wallahs breezing past on their cycles, and municipality workers hesitantly sweeping the streets. Soon we reach the bus stand. My father pays Rs 10 to each of the rickshaw wallahs and then we stride into the bus stand with our respective baggage. We wait in the lounge for the orange bus (the worst of the lot). Don't confuse the lounge to be some confortable place. It is just a shelter with a few concrete benches, on which most probably some one would be sleeping. The floor is littered with paper and ground nut shells. My sister already begins to feel sick and starts to lean on my mother. The pan shops do brisk business at this time- newspapers, goli sodas, pans, cigarettes, and maybe biscuits. The bus finally arrives. My father rushes towards the bus to reserve some seats for us while my sister and I tag along to my mother. He comes back after some time and picks up some luggage. We all proceed towards the orange bus, avoiding the muddy puddles all along. Finally we get on to the bus where my father leads us to the seat where he had put his handkerchief.
We are all set to start our journey on the orange bus. And the story of the orange bus ... some other time.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home