"Just because there is a free bus ride doesn't mean we have to avail it."
My daughter won't let go , of the thread of argument which began outside the "langar-hall" , the communal dining hall.
All packed and dressed for travel, we still had to cover our heads with cloth, as technically, we were still in the gurdwara precincts.
No one replied her as we busied ourselves, hauling up the strollers and duffel bags onto luggage racks.
A large man in dirty white kurta-pyjama poked his large black bearded head in, with a worried look on his face, and almost shouted-"Is this the bus to the station?"
Not trusting my fluency in punjabi, I just nodded my head in assurance.
He gave me a look of disapproval as he took in the jeans-t-shirt-on - a -middle-aged-woman-in -the gurdwara look and disappeared.
Soon we heard him announcing loudly, "this bus is to leave for the station."
Minutes later, an entire group of salwar-kameez clad women crowded at the entrance.
A lady in pale green took charge. Scores of bulging suitcases, bags, and duffel bags were loaded onto the bus. None made their way to their rightful place on the luggage racks. All were stacked up on the seats, piled up on the passage way, higgledy-piggledy.
I could sense a storm of protest brewing up in my husband's throat.
Impulsively, he grabbed the nearest duffel bag; stuffed to the point of bursting; and shoved it unceremoniously up , onto the empty luggage rack overhead.
'Na,na paaji.'
Came a mild protest from the green salwar-kameez.
Then the ladies boarded.
Reeking of ghee and sugar, wearing unwashed clothes, the group of arthritic pilgrims,all in their mid-forties, stood awkwardly, some sitting on seats with legs splayed atop bulging bags.Some sat on the sea of bags itself , on the aisle, too tired to lope their way to the seats.
The bus driver, another bearded and saffron turbaned Sikh, hauled himself in,took a look behind him, and started the engine.
"Ruko, ruko,!!!""Preeto nahin aayye halle"
A cry of alarm arose from multitude of female throats, almost simultaneously. Wait!!Wait for Preeto!!
Disgust, disapproval and impatience writ large on his face, the driver turned back, still revving the engine,threatening to take off any moment, Preeto or not!
"Kithe gayi Preeto?"(Where is she ?)
Someone gave words to a pertinent query.
"She was buying sweetmeats!"(Gurpare kharid rahi sigi)
Someone ventured to reply.
A vision in yellow and orange fluttered at the footboard.A pretty, nubile girl made her way in, a small brown paper package clutched to her chest, silencing all and sundry.Preeto had arrived.
She was immediately followed by a couple of young men with backpacks ;who steadfastly refused to take their eyes off her throughout the journey.
Preeto was gently chided by a few elderly ladies.
The driver adjusted his rearview mirror, focussing on Preeto's face , and roared off, full throttle;scattering stragglers, beggars, and rickshaws .
As we exited the massive gates of the Gurudwara, the driver bellowed in joy-"Jo Bole So Nihal!!"
The motley group in the bus was joined by pedestrians in answering-
"Sat Sri Akal"
(Blessed is he ; who takes the name of Lord)
My eldest daughter hid her face in her hands; embarrassed beyond words ,by this sudden show of religious fervour.
My daughter won't let go , of the thread of argument which began outside the "langar-hall" , the communal dining hall.
All packed and dressed for travel, we still had to cover our heads with cloth, as technically, we were still in the gurdwara precincts.
No one replied her as we busied ourselves, hauling up the strollers and duffel bags onto luggage racks.
A large man in dirty white kurta-pyjama poked his large black bearded head in, with a worried look on his face, and almost shouted-"Is this the bus to the station?"
Not trusting my fluency in punjabi, I just nodded my head in assurance.
He gave me a look of disapproval as he took in the jeans-t-shirt-on - a -middle-aged-woman-in -the gurdwara look and disappeared.
Soon we heard him announcing loudly, "this bus is to leave for the station."
Minutes later, an entire group of salwar-kameez clad women crowded at the entrance.
A lady in pale green took charge. Scores of bulging suitcases, bags, and duffel bags were loaded onto the bus. None made their way to their rightful place on the luggage racks. All were stacked up on the seats, piled up on the passage way, higgledy-piggledy.
I could sense a storm of protest brewing up in my husband's throat.
Impulsively, he grabbed the nearest duffel bag; stuffed to the point of bursting; and shoved it unceremoniously up , onto the empty luggage rack overhead.
'Na,na paaji.'
Came a mild protest from the green salwar-kameez.
Then the ladies boarded.
Reeking of ghee and sugar, wearing unwashed clothes, the group of arthritic pilgrims,all in their mid-forties, stood awkwardly, some sitting on seats with legs splayed atop bulging bags.Some sat on the sea of bags itself , on the aisle, too tired to lope their way to the seats.
The bus driver, another bearded and saffron turbaned Sikh, hauled himself in,took a look behind him, and started the engine.
"Ruko, ruko,!!!""Preeto nahin aayye halle"
A cry of alarm arose from multitude of female throats, almost simultaneously. Wait!!Wait for Preeto!!
Disgust, disapproval and impatience writ large on his face, the driver turned back, still revving the engine,threatening to take off any moment, Preeto or not!
"Kithe gayi Preeto?"(Where is she ?)
Someone gave words to a pertinent query.
"She was buying sweetmeats!"(Gurpare kharid rahi sigi)
Someone ventured to reply.
A vision in yellow and orange fluttered at the footboard.A pretty, nubile girl made her way in, a small brown paper package clutched to her chest, silencing all and sundry.Preeto had arrived.
She was immediately followed by a couple of young men with backpacks ;who steadfastly refused to take their eyes off her throughout the journey.
Preeto was gently chided by a few elderly ladies.
The driver adjusted his rearview mirror, focussing on Preeto's face , and roared off, full throttle;scattering stragglers, beggars, and rickshaws .
As we exited the massive gates of the Gurudwara, the driver bellowed in joy-"Jo Bole So Nihal!!"
The motley group in the bus was joined by pedestrians in answering-
"Sat Sri Akal"
(Blessed is he ; who takes the name of Lord)
My eldest daughter hid her face in her hands; embarrassed beyond words ,by this sudden show of religious fervour.
No comments:
Post a Comment