The bus coughs , shudders and after a couple of metallic sneezes , settles down into a warm , feline purr. Everyone , who had braced themselves , settle down into their seats , warm sun on their faces . People talking , snacking , and staring out of the window, and waiting .
A thin face pokes out of a neighbouring bush , face still contorted from some painful conversation , ear still glued to the distant voice of a loved one . The eyes wear exceedingly dark glasses . The driver waves her back into the bush , laughing -"Hee, heee, madam thinks we are leaving. " Then turns back and supplies obvious information " Madam has undergone an eye surgery , talking to husband posted in Leh " .
I am sitting in a "fauji " bus taking me to a place 90 km away , where my husband is posted , and I haven't even undergone an eye surgery . Makes me feel trifle guilty and gratified that I do not have to conduct private conversations in the privacy of a dried prickly bush. Not that it is actually necessary , given the fact that the conversation is being carried out in chaste "Ahomiya" (Assamese), not particularly comprehensible to a busload of predominantly Punjabis and Himachalis.
A middle aged woman rants about the latecomers . She has the veritable list of them , and whereabouts too. A malayali soldier defiantly gets down , and bellows to the driver "Main chai pi ke aata", with the characteristic shake of the head . He takes a deep breath and pulls up his trousers , and the old lady bellows "Where are you off to now ? We will drive off without you !"
He grins and waves to her , and walks off. The old lady , mutters punjabi curses under her breath , reserved for young boys and certain canines.
The driver has plugged his ears and is shaking his head to some violent rhythm . The old lady lets loose a volley of complaints . It begins with today's youth, the weather , her ailment , non availability of her choicest soft drink in the csd, more family diseases , her disobedient 'bahu', her incorrigible in-laws , and settles down at the hardness of the bus seat she is sitting on .
She is about to take on a legion of negligent army doctors , when the bus driver , his ear piece still stuck to his voluminous turban , bellows "Seargent Mohit Singh " , a timid female voice answers from the back of the bus "Haanji". He is calling out the name of the soldier , not the dependant he is ferrying today , but everyone dutifully answers .
Roll call over , except for two absentees , and the tea drinker , the driver goes back to his rocking. There is still 2 min to go .
The dark glassed madam has emerged from the bushes at sharp 2. Taken her seat next to the complaining sardarni , who now , glad to have a focussed audience , directs her tirade against tardy youngsters . A moment later , the Malyali boy returns and en route to his seat , pats the old woman on her shoulder . Melting instantly against this gesture of affection , she stops snarling , and grinning, croons "Aa gaya mera puttar."
The two absentees are still in "queue", one at the dispensary to collect his medicines , other at MRI centre to collect his report . The driver has spoken into the phone loud enough for all to hear , specially the old woman .
A young bride , dressed in red , sitting quietly hitherto , is alerted by sudden Hanuman Chalisa ringing from her bag . Even the phone is bedazzled, in red and gold . She answers , and shrieks " What? I am in the wrong bus ? " She turns to me and asks " This bus is not going to A?" I nod affirmative , and someone sniggers from behind . The Malyali tells her the real destination , and the bride , stands up suddenly , spilling the contents of her small bag .Crawling on all fours , still pleading on the phone " Don't shout I am coming , I am getting out ".
Once outside the bus , she assumes a strident voice . "What do you mean I should have read carefully ? It is all your fault . You should have called up earlier . I would have reached H , then what ? " She passed by beneath the window , where in the side of the bus , was written in dark, bold, huge letters , the name of the destination.
While the phone altercation is on , a bus trundles past , slowly gathering momentum , as it goes round the bend , disappearing from view , another "fauji " bus with A written in dark huge letters.
"Dont shout ! Tell me what the bus looks like ?" The new bride was lost in the centre of the Cantonment road .
The old lady clucks in sympathy . The driver sighs "Oh Boy!" The Malyali boy , and the Assamese madam together alight , inform her of the bus she had narrowly missed , and how to catch a civil bus from the bus-stop . They manage to bundle her into an auto rickshaw to take her to the bus stop. The bride is near hysterical , partly due to her misfortune , partly due to gratitude .
It is 215 , and the MRI guy has returned , his report duly signed , stamped , and initialled by a battalion of doctors . The Dispensary chap is still missing .
Another middle aged woman pokes her head at the door " This bus is going to L ?" The bus driver , impatient , and totally unhelpful, directs her elsewhere . Not to be fobbed off so easily , the old woman walks around to the back of the bus , where she is informed that this bus , indeed , will go en route to L . She bides her time , and boards the bus when the driver is looking away , settling into some hidden corner .
At sharp 2, the bus comes to life and rolls away , slowly , looking out for the missing guy . Suddenly someone espies him emerging from the canteen , tell -tale bag of groceries clutched in his hands .
"See , I told you , he had gone to the canteen , Liar ". The old lady was beside herself . Luckily she chose to keep quiet when the guy heaved in ,with his groceries and medicines .
Two hours later we have reached the city and the malayali boy suddenly rushes to the front . "Please stop , I need to go ."
"All that tea !!" A voice quips from back . The driver obliges and the bus stands at a busy kerb , shivering and shuddering , waiting .
"Will he come ?" Someone impatiently asks the driver . "He will . sometime ."
A moment later , the boy sprints in .
My friend from afar, whom I have been chatting with on whatsapp , insists on a video chat .
"This is a fauji bus you are in ,isn't it ? " She cackles with merriment , and others stiffen with rectitude . Embarrassed , I lower the volume . Soon we become inaudible to each other and hang up . I sigh in relief .
Carts full of three heaps of colourful fruits are on display on the roadside , red apples , green guavas , orange shiny kinu , a local citrus .
We pass by numerous marriage halls . All occupado , decorated , bands playing , wedding in progress. It is the wedding season .
Before the sun could set on a beautiful field of green baby paddy shoots , the bus reaches its destination .
