He was so large that he occupied the drivers' seat and half of the hump holding the gearbox in between the two pilot seats. It was popular joke, in somewhat bad taste, that Akbarjis posterior begins to steam after he'd finish the third of the three bus trips that our bus undertook every morning.
Akbarji was our school bus driver.
Like a ray of sunshine, his presence would brighten up even grayest of mornings.He would stand on the floorboard, lurching and swaying unsteadily, thanks to all the extra kilos he lugged around,and taking a look around , would break into a huge grin." Aa gaye bachcha log", he would say, displaying all his paan stained, rotten incisors, heaving into his seat .The bus would start and a paan scented breeze would waft in our direction.The front benchers were also treated to the additional aroma of his hair oil,which , some brats would swear was chameli ka tel. Others would differ'-it is definitely chuchunder (mole rat) ka tel.' This would prompt another round of hideous, rude mirth at Akbarji's expense. He would respond with another paan scented grin.
Being laughed at was one of the many things that he took merrily in his giant stride. He lost his first wife to cancer and had a houseful of countless, grimy kids running in and out , runny nosed .He had a heart condition which he jokingly would refer to as"mera dil bada ho gaya hai"(my heart has grown large).
Clad in his trademark white kurta pyjamas, which were never washed(as the legend goes)and turned an awful shade of brown by the year end, and a skull cap that had seen whiter days,he was the charismatic trademark of everything that was rock steady in the rapidly changing world of our childhood.
That this pickwickian person could be astonishingly nimble, was revealed on the day there was an altercation at the school gates, the principal and a drunk parent being the principal parties. Before we could even gather our wits, Akbarji had lumbered his huge self and planted himself between the warring parties.
That was the day someone compared him to Santa Claus.
Akbarji was our school bus driver.
Like a ray of sunshine, his presence would brighten up even grayest of mornings.He would stand on the floorboard, lurching and swaying unsteadily, thanks to all the extra kilos he lugged around,and taking a look around , would break into a huge grin." Aa gaye bachcha log", he would say, displaying all his paan stained, rotten incisors, heaving into his seat .The bus would start and a paan scented breeze would waft in our direction.The front benchers were also treated to the additional aroma of his hair oil,which , some brats would swear was chameli ka tel. Others would differ'-it is definitely chuchunder (mole rat) ka tel.' This would prompt another round of hideous, rude mirth at Akbarji's expense. He would respond with another paan scented grin.
Being laughed at was one of the many things that he took merrily in his giant stride. He lost his first wife to cancer and had a houseful of countless, grimy kids running in and out , runny nosed .He had a heart condition which he jokingly would refer to as"mera dil bada ho gaya hai"(my heart has grown large).
Clad in his trademark white kurta pyjamas, which were never washed(as the legend goes)and turned an awful shade of brown by the year end, and a skull cap that had seen whiter days,he was the charismatic trademark of everything that was rock steady in the rapidly changing world of our childhood.
That this pickwickian person could be astonishingly nimble, was revealed on the day there was an altercation at the school gates, the principal and a drunk parent being the principal parties. Before we could even gather our wits, Akbarji had lumbered his huge self and planted himself between the warring parties.
That was the day someone compared him to Santa Claus.
The pyjama length approaching his knees was so unique to Anbar's personality. It was so different from the Akbar of mughal era.
ReplyDeletePam I could just visualize the whole write up as I was reading ..
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thanks liz. kind of you
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