The Tale of Two Cities

(this is an old one, created on Monday, October 22, 2007, 10:55:05 AM, but posted only today)

Nearing midday, roads choked with cars and motorcycles, commuters in a frenzy to reach their offices and shops before their employers notice the delay…a city in its normalcy. Everything goes just as planned, turning and swinging with the precision of a mechanical clockwork mouse, not a toe out of line.

Hyderabad never ceases to amuse me. Standing in queue (of cars, mind you) in the long stretch between Punjagutta and Nagarjuna circle, I watch the massive cement columns and girders of the fatal flyover right beside me. Just a month or so ago, this newly constructed flyover, which had not yet been completed, came crashing down in a shocking incident, killing 15 – 20 people and damaging several others cars and buildings in its wake. The city was ablaze that night, with cries of people and flashes of camera, as the rescue efforts surged to retrieve the dead and the dying from beneath the rubble. The night wailed and howled.

Just a month ago, and now, all that reminds us of the grim tragedy are the abandoned concrete columns of the fallen flyover. Work has not commenced, and no one seems to be in a hurry. The wondrous public, who praised the corporation’s initiative and looked eagerly to the inauguration of the flyover, today this public pretends it is not there. People stare at the columns but seem to look beyond them, as if they never existed. No one wants it done, no one wants it gone. It’s just not there. An abandoned Ozymandias.

And so, the city has moved on. Even the dead have been mourned and done with. Now we need to get back to normal, to go about our own ways and earn tomorrow’s bread and butter, salt and rice. We have tomorrow’s celebrations to look forward to, new clothes to buy, new homes to settle into, new careers and new roles. The promise of the new, of change and growth, of youth and mirth. Where is the time for lamenting? The city has dried its tears and so shall we.

Today is the day after Vijayadashami. Vijayadashami, or the ‘victorious tenth day’, marks the quintessential victory of good over evil, in Indian mythology. Somehow, all the gods and goddesses decided that this is the day when they’ll undertake a massive effort to liberate mankind of its persecutors. Ten days of celebration are past, several demons have been killed, and we’ve moved on. Today is the eleventh day.

As I look out of the window of my car, I can perceive a special fragrance in the air. I know it and I recognize it, but it had no name. What comes to my mind was the phrase ‘post-pujo.’ I’ll explain this. ‘Pujo’ is the name given in Calcutta (the city of my childhood), to the ten-day celebration of Goddess Durga’s victory over the evil buffalo-headed demon Mahishasura. To anyone visiting Calcutta, I’ll recommend this holiday season. If you thought Calcutta was all slum, pollution, and traffic, you should see the city adorned for this occasion. The slums, the sludges, the autos and rickshaws, they get touched as if by a magic wand, and are infused with beauty and happiness. For these ten days, there is only light, only the auspicious sounds of the ‘dhak’ and the ‘dhol,’ only the sweet fragrances of the ‘bhog,’ the ‘rasagullas,’ ‘chamchams,’ and the ‘mishti doi.’ The sweet smell of perfumes, incences, and flowers, that the deity is lavishly adorned with. There is no aberration, it’s picture perfect.

And when Pujo’s done, what’s left is the quietude of satiation. The city wakes from a pleasant slumber, and stretches in its post-pujo lassitude. And as the memories of the light-filled nights come flooding back, there’s sadness, and there’s the promise of return, and most of all, there’s the lingering fragrance of celebration.

I’m brought back to my journey to wherever it is that I’m going to, in Hyderabad. As the wind whips my face, I can smell the same fragrance in the air now, the scent of happy memories, though past. It’s vivifying, and it brings to mind the peaceful repose of a city, amidst its traffic and its falling flyovers, its terrorists and backpackers, its slums and its splendor. Serves to remind that life goes on, I guess.

The tale of two cities is the tale of all cities.

Of Buses and Bed Bugs

Lately, I've been traveling a lot. Especially in buses, through tiring overnight journeys between Hyderabad and Chennai. And I learnt that travel enlightens you about the world as it really is - not the proverbial 'bed of roses,' but, to stick to the same metaphor, a vertitable moth-eaten seat filled with vermin.

My first advice to someone traveling between Hyderabad and Chennai. Don't take the overnight bus.
If you must, don't take the non-AC bus.
If you still must, don't take the buses belonging to Omer Travels.
If you still, STILL must, don't expect to sleep at night.

My first reaction when I climbed into the giant four-wheeled wonder that screeched to a halt at the Afzalgunj bus depot was, why in the world did I pay Rs.500 for this joke?

I'm not kidding. The fare was Rs.500. Compare this to a sleeper class train ticket between the same stations at a modest Rs.327. If you take the 3rd AC, it comes to about Rs.750. It's a pity the train gets filled up so quickly, leaving no recourse for the emergency travelers, except our 4 wheeled wonders.

In buses, the base fare is anything between Rs.450 and Rs.500. There is no standard fare chart, so if you want it, you pay what they're asking for. And, as a rule, don't stare at the fancy pictures displayed on the walls (or websites) of these bus guys. Those were taken when the buses were brand new. Could be some 25 or 30 years ago. Check their claims of being in the market for the past so-and-so years. Add another five to it. And you'll arrive at a close approximation of the age of the bus you are going to travel in.

If it's an AC bus, chances are, it has been a little more fortunate, and a little less disheartening to look at. AC fares come costly. The base fare for an AC Volvo bus begins at Rs.700, and it can go up to Rs.1400 or Rs.1500 during peak travel seasons (Deepavali, Pongal, Christmas), when Indians are all traveling from one place to another.

Given the high fares, the public that generally books seats on AC buses is marginally more well-behaved (at least 80% of the public). Usually, they do not litter the buses, fiddle with the window latches and light fixtures, sleep on the floor, or stuff empty bottles in the spaces between seats. And, they usually find other means of employing their boredom than boring holes in the upholstery, or scratching out their love poems behind another's seat.

If they have these habits, the desist when others fix their disgusted stares rather pointedly on them.

But things differ vastly in a non AC surrounding.

Look at the picture below. Then look at the picture further below. If the one above is a normal bedbug, the one further below is the one you find on Omer's non-AC buses.

As I settled into the uncomfortable seat at about 10:30 at night, resigning myself to a noisy journey filled with voluptuous Telegu ladies singing raucously on TV, the lights went off, and I drifted into dreams.

Well, almost drifted, that is. When you are being pierced by mean pincers in the middle of the night, there is no peaceful drifting to anywhere.

To continue, I spent a sleepless night that night. Every ten minutes, I'd wake up from a fitful doze to find a mean bedbug biting into my neck, or my back, or the crook of my elbow, swollen to triple its normal size having drunk a bellyfull of my blood.

It was disgusting to even touch those vermins and rip them off my skin. But I did that, and tossed them to the ground and stamped on them. I grit my teeth for the first few bugs. Then, it became a habit for the rest of the night, and I was weeding the bugs with the deft hand of a primate...

Brought to my mind an episode of some reality show I had seen on TV. A few young people had to survive a night in a tumble-down lodge, which was infested with giant cockroaches. And mind you, I hate cockroaches even more than I hate bedbugs. And their dare was to catch those very cockroaches and stuff them into plastic packets. The team that collected most of the roaches would win eventually.

I shuddered involuntarily to behold those young women grabbing handfuls of squirming, crawling roaches, and stuff them into packets that were already swarming with more....

Looking back, I realize the truth in the saying that experience is what makes us stronger.

Ah well! So much for experiencing the soul-fortifying ordeal of tearing blood-filled bedbugs from one's own neck and arms and razing them to the ground. At least, I had the satisfaction of causing a dent in the bedbug population of Omer's super deluxe buses, albeit a small one...the size of a bedbug itself...

Future Omer travelers! Hear! Hear!! Hear!!! And let's hope we can dream of bedbug-free journeys to our loved ones in the future!