This happened just after I finished my final exams in St Edmunds College, Shillong, Meghalaya. It was probably early June or thereabouts in that year.
Shillong, being a hill station, was cold and it was drizzling, as usual, soaking my omni-garment – the green tweed coat with the college crest on its breast pocket.
I was clearing out for good from New Hostel which had been my home for the three previous years and going home to a tea garden, about fifty kilometers from the district town of Sibsagar in Assam, where my father was then working as a Group Engineer in charge of four tea garden factories.As per prior arrangement, he was to receive me with his car at Sibsagar bus stand to take me the rest of the way.
It was a twelve hour journey from Shillong to Sibsagar by the light blue coloured ASTC Non-AC Super Express bus of those days. (Volvo buses had not been heard of in India). It then took another one hour or a bit more by car to Napuk TE.
This is a trip I always loved. During the first forty odd kilometers of hill section the GS Road (also called NH40) dropped sharply from Shillong to Barapani Lake which very often was covered by a cloud at that time of the morning.
Then the road gradually wound down through leafy, forested hill areas, sometimes passing through a village here and there, and after about an hour and a half, and maybe fifty kilometers, reached this mouth watering place called Nongpoh, where all buses and cars stopped by the road side, almost without exception, for tea and snacks.
The snacks were mostly egg chops, alu chops and samosas; Also bread, biscuit, chocolates, cold drinks and small tiffin-cakes. People sitting by the roadside sold honey in small bottles. Paan, tamul, kwai and cigarette shops also abounded.
The buses were supposed to stop here for ten minutes, but they frequently stopped for fifteen or twenty minutes , or as long as it took the driver and conductor to finish their tea and smoke, whichever was longer of the two.
The road went downhill again from Nongpoh and then sort of leveled out after Byrnihat and reached down to the plains somewhere near Jorabat, about another thirty five odd kilometers away. From the T-junction here you could turn left towards Guwahati or to the right towards Nowgong. Our bus bound for Sibsagar turned right. Onto another National Highway, called NH37 that took you through places that I remember as Jagi Road, Nowgong, (which is called Nagaon these days), Jakhalabandha, Kaziranga, Bokakhat, Dergaon, Jorhat, Teok and Sibsagar. The same road, the NH37, then continued on to Moran, Dibrugarh, Makum, Tinsukia and Digboi.
The place where my father lived those days was another goodish distance from Sibsagar and one had to travel down the road connecting with Delih Ghat, where the beautiful Delih river flows, through Nazira and Cheraido Purbut towards Sonari and Sapekhati.
Our place at Napuk was about five kilometers before one reached Sonari. I loved this bus trip every time because between my life confined to a curfew bound hostel in a hill town and the holidays confined inside a bungalow in the tea garden, I had no clear idea of the real world that lay outside of my orbit.
The bus to Sibsagar travelled down at least half the length of the Brahmaputra Valley, closely running parallel to the great river that alternately brought sorrow and joy to the people of Assam every year through floods and bumper crops..
I greatly looked forward to seeing the countryside, the villages and towns that we passed through, the forests and the streams of Kaziranga, the hill section at Bura Pahar, the paddy fields and the tea gardens that looked so green in the rains, the different kinds of people, and the overall thrill and excitement of being alone and travelling through so many strange places. And all of it from the supreme comfort of a well padded reclining seat in the ASTC Super Express bus.
Although the bus was not air-conditioned in those days and the temperature in the plains was often much hotter that what I was accustomed to in Shillong, somehow it did not seem to matter. I don’t suppose it matters very much when you are eighteen or nineteen years old. The bus stopped after every couple of hours or so, to let passengers take a toilet break and to allow people to board or to disembark.
You also got to sample the street food at the eateries at various places including, but not limited to, the Peda and puri shops at Bokakhat that lined the National Highway close to the bus stand. The pedas were nice enough, but the puris tasted as if they were fried in diesel.
For some unfathomable reason, there was a system of trans-shipment of luggage and a change of bus at Nowgong (which later came to be known as Nagaon). To my recollection, they did it only for the buses that went from Shillong to Sibsagar and from Shillong to Dibrugarh but not for the bus that went from Shillong to Jorhat.
The halt at Nowgong was very long, of one full hour, during the twelve hour long trip from Shillong to Sibsagar. The bus reached there at around mid day, in time for lunch for the passengers and the driver. Everyone took their hand baggage and cleared out of the bus in search of lunch. Another bus was kept parked alongside and the ASTC porters transferred all the luggage from the roof top carrier of the incoming bus onto the roof top carrier of the waiting bus here and covered the lot again with tarpaulin.
The passengers reassembled at the new bus after the one hour lunch halt and took the same seat numbers as was assigned to them in the previous bus. Nowgong was a large and thriving bus station, similar to the town itself. It was about a kilometer off the main NH37 and the bus took a detour to the left soon after entering the town.
Buses from all over Upper Assam could be seen at Nowgong. The bus station had a nice and big ASTC canteen where one generally could get very filling rice and curry meal for a reasonable price. There were many other roadside shanties outside the gates of the bus station that also sold rice and curry, but the ASTC canteen was the best that could be had within walking distance from the buses.
On one occasion I ate at one of the shanties and discovered the secret of their success. The shanties had something to suit every pocket. That was the secret. For instance they had a large metal cauldron full of parboiled rice and another large round flat bottomed aluminum container that contained the curry. The curry was basically a thick reddish coloured gravy of onion, garlic, ginger, bay leaf and sundry other spices. In this spicy gravy floated large sized diced potatoes, duck’s eggs – hard boiled and then deep fried- and also small pieces of mutton and chicken. Depending on customers’ preference the shop served two small ladles full of gravy into a steel bowl and plopped a couple of potatoes therein as Alu-Curry, or two ladles full of gravy into a bowl and an egg therein as Egg-Curry or a couple of pieces of mutton therein as Mutton-Curry and so forth, as required, the basic gravy remaining the same.
Half an onion, one green chilli, a tiny piece of lemon and a dollop of salt came free with the plate of rice and curry. You had the option of either standing on the road and eating in buffet style or you could sit on the wooden bench kept by the roadside – perching the plate on your lap – laptop style. I ate at one of these shanties only once during my several trips, but I did not fall ill or anything, which is saying a lot.
Well, on this particular day of which we speak, on that morning I left the hostel at around a quarter past five after a few panic stricken minutes of waiting at Don Bosco Square for a taxi.
I could not run down Jacob’s Ladder, as I normally would have done, and take the short cut via the Governors House, Ward’s Lake and down the narrow bridge and the lane passing through the Botanical Garden to Police Bazaar, because I had a lot of luggage.
Finally a taxi agreed to take me. It cost me a bomb because, firstly, taxis in Shillong did not run on meters and they quoted arbitrary rates depending on their mood and, secondly, the taxi had to go around in a circle for over two kilometers via Laitumkhrah and the Fire Brigade and on to Jowai Road to enter my college campus through the main gate and the road meant for cars. From there it was another three hundred meters to my hostel. That wasted another precious ten or fifteen minutes. Then the taxi had to come out again on to Jowai Road via the main gate and turn right this time going towards Dhankheti, Malki, Lachumere, State Library, Secretariat, Shillong Club and then on to Police Bazaar. The State Transport Depot was a little beyond the Modern Book Store, Kelvin Cinema and Eecee Restaurant.
Things must have changed a lot since my time, but I am speaking of Shillong as it was then. So it happened that I reached the bus stand with just about ten minutes to spare.
Fortunately, the ticket had been bought six days previously and hence I was already assured of a window side seat. The loaders were getting about ready to descend from the top of the bus as I rushed in, panting, and handed over my heavy pieces of luggage for stowing on the overhead carrier and for covering in tarpaulin for the journey.
The luggage was not much for a college boy. But for me it contained all my earthly possessions. It consisted of one standard size suitcase containing mostly my dirty clothes for washing at home – mainly because I hadn’t the money for getting them washed by the dhobi who lived behind our hostel who charged an arm and a leg for washing – and saving them for home washing since my date of departure was looming closer, one battered large brown leather Gladstone bag containing all my books and notes and one hold-all for my bedding.
I also carried a heavy dark blue airbag, with “Indian Airlines” emblazoned in bright yellow on both its sides, containing all my valuable stuff, although for the love of God I cannot recall today what these valuables were, simply because I owned nothing of any value those days, living as I did on a very small monthly allowance and what little I earned on the side by providing private tuition to a school boy of Class seven who lived close to my college gate.
The only item of any value was a rather plain looking gold ring with my name inscribed on it, costing about a hundred rupees when purchased, given to me by my mother on my sixteenth birthday. This I naturally wore on my finger and it was not in my bag. Anyway, my luggage was stowed, I entered the bus, found my window seat and sank into it, all ready to enjoy the cross country trip through Upper Assam. I even popped a chewing gum into my mouth. But very soon my mood was spoilt. Spoilt completely.
On reflection, I think that my day had started on the wrong note right from the beginning.
First, the taxi driver had charged me an enormous amount not only because no other cab was available that early in the morning drizzle, but mainly because he had realized that I was in a desperate hurry to get to the bus station. Thus by the time I boarded the bus I had just about three or four rupees left in my pocket for breakfast, lunch, chewing gum and smokes. A rupee went a very long way in those inflation free days. For instance, one rupee and twenty five paise bought you a movie ticket in rear stall in Dreamland Cinema, or a plate of noodles at Eecee Restaurant or a hamburger at City Service in Laitumkhrah or three packets of Charminar cigarettes.
By that yardstick I had a decent amount of money with me and the meager cash holding did not worry me that seriously (it only helped to spoil my mood). After all I was expecting my father-cum- ATM to be there to receive me at Sibsagar bus stand and I did not foresee any other expense during the trip.
Second, my green tweed coat, with the college crest on the breast pocket, that I wore everywhere was wet and there was no way I could take it off and hang it somewhere to dry because the morning was still pretty cold.
Third, the girl from second year Economics at Lady Keane College whom I had met at a friend’s house in Laban the previous week was standing alone at the Shillong- Guwahati bus ticket counter and there was no time to go and say “Hello” to her.
Fourth, the very worst, thing happened after the bus started. Those buses had a seating configuration of two by two. I had the window seat on the right – starboard- side in the front row, just behind the driver. Chosen six days ago when I had bought my ticket.
There was a girl wearing a Khasi jainsen seated next to me on the aisle seat. I hadn’t looked at her when I had rushed in at the last minute. But now she forced me to look at her because she addressed me directly. What she said to me was that she had this hill sickness, which caused her to throw up every time she travelled by bus. As she was in the aisle seat it would be difficult for her to reach the window in time to throw up whenever the urge came. She also pointed out that in such an event, she might end up soiling my clothes. I hurriedly got up and gave her my window seat. After all who wants vomit on his clothes?
As it turned out, she never once threw up during the entire journey of almost twelve hours – may be because of the constant flow of fresh air on her face or maybe because she was lying all through. I never found out. But inwardly I fumed all the way to Sibsagar, and beyond.
Later, I discovered from overhearing snatches of her conversation with the three boys who were also travelling with her in the same bus that she was a student at the Dibrugarh Medical College. So, maybe she had read up all about hill sickness in her medical books. I was so mad at her for depriving me of my cherished window seat that I have neither forgotten the incident, nor forgiven her till date.
Nongpoh came and went in a blur. I must have got down, had a few egg chops, tea and a smoke. But I don’t remember much about it. I was still off mood and angry about my life.
The bus crossed Jorabat without stopping and halted next at Jagi Road. It was very warm by then, being in the plains in summer. I took off my green tweed coat and stowed it in the overhead rack alongside my airbag.
The bus sped on down the highway and reached Nowgong around mid day. As per the extant practice, everyone disembarked with hand baggage for lunch and transshipment of the luggage stored in the overhead carrier on to the bus that was waiting alongside already.
Although no announcement was made, I knew from past experience that the new bus bound for Sibsagar would leave only after one hour.
This time I had not only the handbag I had boarded the bus with, but also the green tweed coat with the college crest on its pocket, now only partially dry. Somehow I managed to carry both and went to the ASTC canteen for a leisurely lunch of rice and curry.
The place was crowed as always and it took some time before I was served my food. Lunch over, there was nothing much to do. Sometimes I bumped into other boys from Shillong similarly bound for their home towns by some other bus. But there was no such luck this time. So I finished my cigarette and slowly strolled back to the bus, killing as much time as I could. Only half an hour had passed since our arrival. But I thought I would just sleep anyway since it was very hot and humid by that time and I was not enjoying the lugging of my airbag and the green tweed coat.
There was only a vacant slot where my bus had been parked earlier and at first I just couldn’t believe my eyes. I stood there transfixed, irresolute, dumbly looking left and right. There was no one to ask for any information as every other person in the whole huge place was also a passenger in a hurry. Then I caught hold of a fellow that looked like an ASTC porter. He said the bus for Sibsagar had left, since the time table had changed. The haltage had been reduced to half an hour instead of one hour. Not funny, I said. No one announced this, I said. The porter fellow just shrugged. Or made a gesture that was an equivalent of shrugging. He couldn’t really comment on that, he said.
Do you know what is meant by the phrase “Left in the lurch “? Well, I surely didn’t. Not until that moment. I was well and truly left. In the lurch, of all things. After a heavy lunch. With an armful of green tweed coat, and a heavy airbag. In a lurch called Nowgong bus station. In summer. In the peak of mid day heat. With exactly one rupee and eighty seven paise in my pocket.
It was the mother of all lurches. Truth be told, it was the senior most mother of all other mothers of lurches. I didn’t like it one bit. My world fell apart before my eyes.
I was now stranded in the middle of a strange town well over two hundred kilometers from my destination, where I knew nobody. I had practically no money in my pocket. My entire overhead luggage was gone. I couldn’t think straight. I ran. I ran as I had never run before. I ran all the way some two kilometers from the ASTC bus depot to the main highway, in that heat, with my airbag and the green tweed coat. I stumbled and almost fell down once, when some street dogs started chasing me. Fortunately they didn’t come too close.
My bus was nowhere to be seen. I asked the people in the street. No one had any inkling about my bus.
There was a taxi stand of sorts nearby. Four or five rather dilapidated looking Ambassador cars were parked there, with all the drivers fast asleep at the wheel. Not many people travelled by taxis in this town during the middle of the day. No, not many people travelled by taxis in this town. Period.
I woke up one of the drivers and explained my situation. He yawned and said no problem. He could catch the bus easily. I got in and he started the car with a roar that scattered all the street dogs resting nearby. He zoomed down the highway in a blazing trail of sound that must have woken up all God fearing citizens of Nowgong from their mid day siesta. Just about one kilometer later when we were near the edge of the town he stopped. As if he had just remembered. There was no petrol he said. He couldn’t run after my bus without fuel, he said. And he turned into an Assam Oil petrol pump. Please give me forty rupees, he said. We will adjust the balance after I catch your bus, he said.
Now came the crunch. After all the expenses of breakfast, tea, snacks and lunch, not to mention smokes, I had a little over a rupee left in my pocket and I simply had to catch that bus.
In desperation I took off the gold ring with my name inscribed on it, costing about a hundred rupees when purchased, given to me by my mother on my sixteenth birthday. The price would certainly have been much more than a hundred rupees by this time. But I simply had no other option. I took off the ring and gave it to the taxi driver and said please use this for whatever fare you are going to charge me and give me the balance back. I simply have to catch that bus.
The fellow took it to the petrol pump owner who must have said it was worthy and so he accepted it. He also took my address afterwards so that he could send me a Money Order for the balance amount.
Anyhow, after a delay for some minutes, the taxi took off again down the near empty highway towards Kaziranga. The miles just flew past under the wheels. After a very tense and long time we finally sighted the bus at a place called Jakhalabandha – may be over thirty or more kilometers from Nowgong. We could not have caught up with it had it not had stopped at the bus stand there for a ten minute bathroom break.
By the time my taxi overtook the bus and blocked its path, the ten minutes was over, the driver was blowing a warning horn, and the bus was just about to drive off again.
I was so relieved, I almost cried. I tried to scold the bus conductor for leaving me behind, but he was indifferent. I gave the taxi driver my address for sending the Money Order. Jumped in the bus and reclaimed my aisle seat.
The girl in the Jainsen who had cheated me of my window seat was curious as to what had happened but I just said that I had missed the bus. I did not alight from the bus even for a toilet break for the next two hundred kilometers.
The bus reached Sibsagar a little after dark. My father was waiting at the bus station as arranged and mercifully he did not notice the absence of my ring.
So we drove home to Napuk together in peaceful companionship, discussing this and that..
My mother detected the absence of my ring the next day and she threw a fit, suspecting that I might have given it to some girl friend. I wish I had.
Needless to mention, I never heard from that wretched taxi driver, ever again.
Fifty Shades of Random Ramblings 