The road to my village: the orange bus

Finally we get into the orange bus, something that I have hated all my life. There is a familiar stink to the bus. Most of the visible metal in the bus is rusted and the seats are dirty though only a few of them are torn. The patterned steel floor is quite muddy. We slowly move towards out seats avoiding tripping over suitcases, gunny bags, steel boxes, umbrellas and sometimes hen (hen !!!! yes ... usually they were placed in the overhead space for luggage). As soon as we reached our seats my sister would lie down in my mother's lap. The best and worst parts of the journey were yet to come.

The bus would roll out of the bus stand and take a right towards hills. A window seat offered a splendid view of nature. Lush green fields fresh with the morning dew and narrow brown paths along these fields are very calming. Farmers, with their big bamboo hats would be getting set for the day's work. Then came "thank you, visit again" boards as the bus roared out of the town. Soon we would face the "drive carefully" sign and in no time we would be climbing the hill. We would go higher and higher almost reaching for the clouds. The deep valleys, the wild forests, occasional huts on the hill side, and the streams braving their way through the rocks seem to have some unknown magnetism to them. Soon the bus would reach the temple on the hill. The pujari would come on to the bus with some prasadam (usually coconut) and sinduram. I guessed this was for the safety of the bus since the route was very dangerous. The priest would then go back to the temple and hit the temple bell. The bus would then continue its quest of the hills. Then came this huge stone with "Do Good, Be Good" painted in white on it. Soon we reach the first town on the way, Koraput.


As the bus entered the bus stand, palli wallahs tried to persuade us to buy a packet of moongphali. Following them were vendors selling samosas, pakodas, flowers, groundnut rolls etc. Some of the passengers would stroll down the bus to a nearby teashop for a cup of hot chai. I used to fell asleep here. So I donot remember much about the next section of the journey (apprx 2hrs) except for a bridge, a rail track, forests & hills, and more forests & hills. Then at around 9:30 am we reach the second major stop enroute, Laxmipur.

We usually got out of the bus to catch a breath of fresh air. By this time my sister would have thrown up at least once and I would be feeling a bit dizzy. This was the breakfast stop for the passengers. The driver would take the bus to a particular hotel, rather a dhaba (cannot recollect the name). I guess his food was on the house since he brought business to the hotel. I always wondered, how could people eat while traveling on the cicuitouts ghat roads and not throw up. But still to my amazement people ate, ate big time. Idlis, Pooris, Upma, and Dosa were people's favorites. I used to ask my father for a rupee and would buy two mint candies. I would eat one and give the other to my sister who would eat it later (after we reached our village). After everyone finished their breakfasts the driver would bring back the bus to life. Then started the worst part. My head reeled and I felt terribly nauseated. But I rarely threw up. I would say a secret prayer requesting god to help me sustain this penultimate part of the journey. Finally we would reach the destination of the bus, Rayagada.


This would be one of my biggest reliefs since the ghat part was done. We then took the familiar semi-luxury bus (I never knew the origin and destination of the bus but remember the words semi-luxury painted on it) or the triple-bus (I did not know why this was called triple-bus till recently. Seems that this bus made three trips a day through our village, and so the name triple.) to our village which was just 25 kms from here. We would often meet some familiar face on the bus and father would start a conversation with him. As we neared our village, my father would request the conductor to stop the bus at our village (it does not stope at our village unless someone requests). Finally we would reach our village. A bunch of familiar faces would greet us as we stepped down the bus. Someone usually insisted carrying the luggage to my grand father's house. As we walked through the village street, smiling faces greeted us asking us "Have you come?". I often wondered why they asked "have you come", when they know that we have come. I realized much later that it does not matter what they ask, what matters is they consider you to be one of their own. This greeting of my villagers touches me when I visit my grand father these days.