Missed adventure

Manju Kaundal

SOME fears seem so out of place in hindsight, but so very real when one is in the middle of a situation. Despite having my parents and husband for company, I, for one, felt completely in the woods that day. After a memorable Goan holiday, we had to go to Belgaum to pick up my sister. The connecting Volvo bus was available only the following day, so to save time we decided to take a roadways bus.

We were soon dreading our decision as the conductor kept accommodating passengers when there was clearly no space left. We were passing through what appeared to be a jungle. Hours passed, but the scenery did not change. “What if something were to go wrong with the bus?” I thought. I had not seen another vehicle for hours.

The bus did come to a halt soon after, for chai-biscuit at a jungle café, and I was so relieved to see human activity other than the circus on our bus. Soon after resuming the journey, the bus halted again. This time, it had conked out.

 We stood along the road with the crowd, waiting for help. After much wait, a tempo appeared and there was a rush to get into it. We didn’t stand a chance, so we had to wait. The wait stretched on. Then came a giant of a truck. There was an exclamation of joy. Everyone managed to get into it and sat on the dirty floor. I preferred standing. 

I don’t know whether it was the height of the truck or the poor condition of the road, but I was swinging in all directions with a bang every now and then. The sun beating down made it worse. Each and every part of my body was agitating. My discomfort was clearly visible and when the driver applied brakes at a place where, we were told, a bus would come every 20 minutes, we disembarked. I could take it no more.

It was a small country hub, but I was relieved. Slowly time started flying. No bus came. Locals put it casually: “Bus aati toh he, kabhi nahi bhi aati “ (a bus comes at times; but doesn’t at times). I kicked myself for not bearing the agony and continuing the journey in the truck.

Autowallahs appeared but were reluctant to cross the territory. We somehow reached a deal for the 10-km journey to Belgaum. We had hardly moved 100 metres when the road started getting better. Even the long-awaited bus crossed us after a while. Soon, the signs of the city were visible. 

If I had smiled through it all, seen what was outside rather than inside the bus and the truck, it could have qualified as an adventure to talk about. Instead, my memory of that day is nothing short of a nightmare. But recall that trip, all said and done, I still do. For better or worse, it remains an important part of the journey called life.

The writer is an Assistant Professor at IJDC, Pehowa