There isn’t a public place that represents a city more truly than its railway station. The city’s railway station is its metonymic figure in life and blood, brick and mortar. With good reason, the railway station in the city of Jamshedpur is called Tatanagar Junction. A fading board affixed on a pillar at Pipariya station proudly proclaims “Alight here for Panchmarhi”. At 2 AM in the night, passengers in deep slumber – the one possible only in trains with their rocking motion and reassuring rattle – wake up to sounds of men selling sev at Ratlam Junction. The late evening Kanpur railway station cut a microcosmic picture of the city.
Dimly lit, dirty, and congested – its air putrid with intense stench of filth and human waste. The daily travelers awaited their train home, wary from travel on Kanpur’s potholed roads. Families spread their belongings, forming miniature households on the railway platform. The mothers packed and unpacked food, children alternately ran and cried, as the elderly perched on bags muttered advices. A destitute old woman spending her days and nights on a tattered plastic banner beside a food stand swung her arms violently at swarming flies. The railway station appeared as if expressing its sadness with the current state of affairs and its despair about the city’s future. Running an hour late, the Avadh Express, on a long and arduous 3 day 65 stops journey from Gorakhpur to Bandra Terminus, rolled into Kanpur Central at quarter to midnight.
The AC coaches passed. Lights switched off and curtains drawn across their glass windows. Had it not been for the windows, waiting passengers on the platform could have heard men and women snoring smugly under warm blankets. Then, as if to serve as a reminder of India’s reality, followed the sleeper coaches.
Young boys and men stood at the door with empty plastic bottles in their hand, their eyes searching for the nearest water tap. Lights from the platform briefly lit the insides as they rattled. From Bihar to the city of Bombay, trains do not travel – they migrate.
The coaches were full of people and their luggage. Two, or at times three squeezed into a berth meant for one.
Autocad, Isometric Drawing Exercises, Mechanical Design, Mechanical Engineering, Drawing School, Drawing Machine, Interesting Drawings, Geometric Drawing, 3d Drawings thiago Benfica CATIA. Ek eka ka kitna katha hota ha. Parking near (within 50 feet) a railroad track is allowed if it is a controlled railroad crossing? A tower that is 142 feet tall casts a shadow 174 feet long. Find the angle of elevation of the sun to the nearest degree? Ak gaj me kitna feet hota hai.
The ticketless slept on newspapers spread on aisles between seats. In dimly lit coaches, boarding passengers at Kanpur Central fought their way to their berths, shouting at those sleeping on floor to move aside and carefully watching their steps. A misstep could have crushed a man’s foot, a woman’s hand or a child’s face. I found my side upper berth in S9 occupied by a tall and wiry man fast asleep.
His bright orange hair stood out in the dark. He crouched to fit his frame on the short side upper berth and rested his head on his bag. A man’s bag often betrays the story of his life. This trusted travel partner is a silent witness to his travails, and bears the brunt like his own blood and flesh. The color of fading green, the man’s bag had small square pieces stitched up at different places. Its cloth had worn thin from the years, much like its owner.
I tapped him on his shoulder. He woke up, as if expecting a nudge or a tap any moment. “Bhaiya, mera seat hai”, I showed him my ticket. He climbed down the berth, put on what once, a long time ago, must have been spotless white sports shoes, pulled his fading green bag and walked away – all with swift, assured movements.
Perhaps it was routine. Traveling ticketless, choosing an empty berth and waiting for luck to run out at some point in the night. Never mind the account books of Indian Railways. Never mind the breach of rules and regulations. Why does a man travel?
Or a more pertinent question is why do the poor travel in this manner? On dirty aisles between seats, legs going over them all night; beside the doors of toilets reeking with the smell of human waste. The answer perhaps lies in hope – hope of finding work, a better place to live, enough food to eat, and in faint chance of it all falling into place, perhaps a brighter tomorrow for the children.
That is why the poor travel, in the hope that a new destination holds the answers to their great miseries. The Indian Railways keeps this hope alive. While most public institutions utterly fail in their responsibilities, Indian Railways does a great service to the poor, by keeping their hopes alive.
I woke up with a start. The train had come to a halt beside a nondescript platform.
Early morning sun reached into the coach through its grilled windows. The tall, wiry man was asleep on a patch of newspapers on the floor, crouching to fit his frame in the small vacant space, his head resting on a fading green bag.
A few minutes later, the train rumbled to life. I drifted back to sleep. Bolo Naashta! Garma Garam Naashta Bolo!
A loud voice with a peculiar characteristic boomed across the coach. It belonged to a stocky, middle aged man carrying hot samosas and batata vadas in a blue plastic bucket on his head. His voice woke up a passenger sleeping on the opposite upper berth. The passenger stretched and his feet hit him in the face. Unperturbed, he walked ahead, delivering his breakfast time monologue in his peculiar voice. Years of shouting out the contents of a hot basket on his head, day in and day out, had rendered his speech utterly listless and indifferent. He could be nearby, but it seemed his words were coming from a distance – almost as if his throat had become one of those old sound players.
A few seats ahead, the usual routine scene played out. One of the passengers inquired – “Eh Samosa! Idhar aa!” “Samosa kaise diya?” “Bees ka do” “Garam hai?” “Garam hai” “2 de” Exchanging money, the passenger takes the samosas in a piece of newspaper, with a chilli wedged nearby. Yeh kahaan garam hai? Garam bola tha na!” The passenger digs his hand into the basket, touching samosas to gauge their temperature. “Sab ek jaisa hi hai saab” “Jaa fir waapas le ja. Mera paisa de” He fishes for the twenty rupees in the pouch made into his stained apron.
Returning them to the passenger, he walks ahead, delivering his breakfast monologue in his peculiar voice, to run into another such passenger in the next coach, for another such exchange. Little wonder then that he spoke and walked like a robot.
Years of catering to the thankless passengers on moving trains, of carrying oily snacks on the head, in a stained apron had drained him, his voice of human emotion. It was no longer capable of surprise, of joy and even grief. Perhaps there would be anger. Surely, there would be anger. Three young men occupied the opposite berths. They were different ages and traveling together. The oldest among them must be in his early twenties.
He looked out of the window, at the passing landscape, digging the last bits of Rajshree from his teeth with the overgrown nail on smallest finger of his right hand. His well-oiled hair parted from the middle.
The youngest of the three idled on the upper berth and got down only to fill his 1.5L plastic bottle with a Coke cap with water from platform taps. The third guy, dressed in a red t-shirt and dark blue jeans, hunched beside the elder brother, black earphones plugged into his ear.
They rarely ate or talked amongst each other, each whiling away the time in his own way. At noon, as the train departed from Kota Junction, a couple, probably in their early forties, occupied the two berths vacated a while ago. The lady, a black shawl wrapped around her, settled beside the window.
The man in a checked shirt and black trousers sat beside her with the day’s Dainik Jagran. Amidst the quintessential hustle-bustle on a long distance train, the quiet and silence in this section of S9 coach was stark and unsettling. Nobody ate anything for lunch. A few hours passed. The man, tired from reading sad affairs of the nation and the world, lied down and drifted into sleep. The lady continued to look out of the window, her eyes unmoving, her gaze fixed. She was looking at the farms and trees and wastelands rolling by without really noticing them.
She was deep in thought and reflection. The constantly changing landscape, objects speeding past her eyes gave her the solitude to ruminate. It seems so strange, that of all places in the world, a moving train with its rattle and tattle should provide the seclusion to dive deep into nostalgia and reminisce unlike any other.
“Kahaan jayenge?” the elder brother asked me. Kahaan jayenge Often the first question strangers ask each other on a train – the question that is meant to break the ice. This simple question paves the way for long conversations and camaraderie. It could be an impassioned discussion on local politics, a general rant about scams and corruption, or a window into their private lives. It all starts with “kahaan jayenge?” “Baroda” “Naukri karte hai?” “Nahi, ghar hai” “Accha ek baat bataiye, Barodaaur Vadodara ek hi shahar hai?” “Haan ek hi hai Aur aap?” “ Hum Vapi jaa rahe hai.
Navneet factory me duty karte hai Badi company hai” In the hierarchy of jobs that low income households cherish for their young boys, the elusive sarkaari naukri takes top spot, followed by duty at a badi company. The word duty, with all its associations to a uniform, a work schedule and perhaps a cap, gives the job a comforting guise of dignity and stability. Naukri connotes unemployment – Naukri nahi mil rahi, Naukri ki talaash hai –while duty connotes a steady income. “Hmm, badi company hai. Navneet ki kitaabe, copy acchi quality ki aati hai” Acknowledgement of Navneet’s importance made the elder brother smile. He neatly opened a packet of Rajshree and lowered it in my direction.
I politely declined. He emptied the contents in his mouth, and looked out of the window, chewing onto the gutka contentedly. The sky adorned shades of orange as the train speeded towards evening from a harsh summer afternoon. The air turned cooler and more agreeable. On the berths opposite, the man was now awake and sat upright as the lady, so many hours later, continued to stare vacantly outside the window. At long last, she turned and spoke to the man in a low tone – “Phone karte hai usse. Pata nai bedsheet change kiya bhi hoga ki nahi” A few moments later, the man replied, “Kiya hoga.
Humne nikalte waqt kaha toh tha” “Ji Maine makaan malik ko bhi kaha tha badalne ke liye” “Dekho makaan malik bhi kitna accha tha. Aaj kal kahaan milte hai aise log” The lady didn’t respond to this. She turned her gaze back to outside the window, as distant landscape obscured from view in the fading evening light. A catering services boy carrying biscuits, cakes, wafers and chocolates moved around cheerfully, loudly exhorting passengers to buy some. He moved quickly and cleverly paused to rearrange the contents of his basket near the section with kids to entice their attention and nudge this attention into stubbornness. A passenger picked up a Britannia cake packet. Its expiry date was next month.
She refused to buy a packet due for expiry so soon. But the catering boy persisted – weaving vague stories and theories like a salesman keen to close a deal. He took ‘personal guarantee’ of the cake’s quality, explaining how companies always undermined the life of their goods. It doesn’t work out that way in India, he quipped. As the haggle continued, a now-familiar listless voice filled the air, as if leaking from an old loudspeaker in the distance – “Khaana!
Sabzi roti ka garam khana boliye!” The difference between two men doing the same work couldn’t have been starker – one morose and mechanical, the other ebullient and enthusiastic. One wary and hardened from the years gone by, the other filled with hope and optimism for the future. That is the thing about youth; one thinks one can change the world.
“Kanpur kaahe gaye the?” the elder brother resumed conversation. He had noted me boarding at Kanpur Central. “Interview” His eyes widened.
He leaned forward and asked “Naukri?” “Nahi Padhaai” “Accha” He slouched back into the seat. “Hum soche ki hum yahaan Lucknowve se Gujarat aaye hai koi Gujarat se U.P. Kaahe jayega naukri ke liye” There are articles and statistics galore highlighting the poor economic growth and rampant unemployment in the Hindi heartland of India. But the momentary disbelief on his face, upon hearing someone going to U.P.
For a job interview, captured gravity of the situation like no written word can. The lady turned her gaze away from the window to speak to her husband – “9 ghante ho gaye” “Hmm, 9 ghante ho gaye. Kal subah ek poora din ho jayega. Isi tarah din aur mahine beet jayenge” Silence ensued. She looked out of the window.
It had turned pitch dark by now. One could barely see the outline of trees and hillocks passing by, beyond the lights from the train. The elder brother reached for his bag beneath the seat and took out a rectangular box with a shiny sticker on its head. Bold letters in dark green majestic font read “Lucknow Bakery”.
He opened the box and offered – “Lijiye bhaiya. Lucknow ke mashoor” “Thank you” I took one biscuit and ate. “Hum jab bhi Lucknow aate hai, do teen box zaroor le kar laut te hai Gujarat. Chote ko kaafi pasand hai” He looked at the upper berth. “Kitni baar jaana hota hai Lucknow?” He sighed and looked out into the dark as he spoke – “Saal me do teen baar.
Jab bhi ghar me kaam aata hai, chale aate hai. Baaki samay wahin Gujarat me. Factory waale room diye hai just factory ke bagal me. Wohin par khaana, peena, sona” “Lucknow me hi naukri lene ki koshish nahi ki?” “Lucknowve me kahaan bhaiya. Naukri milegi bhi toh paisa nai milega.
Aur Lucknow, Kanpuri ke aage kuch nai hai Yahaan Gujarat me paisa theek milta hai. Parivaar ke 6-7 ladke yahin kaam karte hai. Iss baar Chote ko bhi lekar chal rahe hai. Bade saahab bole hai Chote ki duty lagwaa denge” Forced migration and its perils – that explained the youngest brother, Chote, spending the day alone on the upper berth, not talking to anyone, not gazing out of the window or listening to songs. He even refused to eat Lucknow Bakery biscuits. He was making the journey from home to an unfamiliar place, filled with strangers and an alien language.
He was making the journey from friends to fellow workers, from freedom to ‘duty’, from cricket in the gully to stacks of white blank paper in a factory. The lady spoke again – “Khaana khaya hoga ki nahi?” “Nahi khaya hoga toh kha legakyun itni fikar karti ho” “Pehli baar ghar se alag, apne aap rahega.
Pata nai kaise” Her voice cracked. The man sighed. “Reh lega Bacche sikh jaate hai. Buwajaan ka ladka Feroze bhi toh reh raha hai ek saal se” He continued – “Kal se class shuru ho jayegi. Fir padhai me hi samay beet jayega uska. Ghar ki yaad nahi aayegi” He spoke as much to himself as to his wife, consoling his own uncertainties and fears he chose not to give words. It all became clear now.
They had boarded at Kota. They had come to drop their son for his studies at the hub of IIT JEE and AIEEE preparations.
Every year, thousands of students migrated to Kota to realize the ultimate dream – IIT – the passport to unbridled success and prosperity, the bragging rights for life. The lady concurred – “Aakhir uske future ke liye yahi theek hai” She opened a bottle of water and drank a little. The man called his son.
He had finished dinner and changed the bed sheet, about to sleep to be up in time for the 7 AM Physics class next morning. The rattle of moving train became more pronounced in the silence of night. Cold wind gushed in from the open windows. A space of six train berths, and three different stories – one, of flight from home to earn a living for the family thousand miles away, the other, of separation from lone son in hope of a better education, and yet another a journey in search of newer pastures. And yet the three disparate stories shared a common theme – hope, hope for a better future.Therein lies the beauty of Indian Railways. Each train is a microcosm of quintessential Indian society.
The unforgettable voice, peculiar in its complete lack of emotion, like sound leaking from an old loudspeaker could be heard from the distance. “Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana. Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana”. Dandia Bazaar, Vadodara.
Opposite the Navalakhi ground, facing a few flourishing Xerox and Sandwich shops, lies a massive garbage dump. Plastic waste, rotten fruits and vegetables accumulate and spill over on the road, much to the delight of stray dogs and street-urchins.
Adjacent to the garbage dump, sprawls majestically, the massive campus of the Faculty of Technology and Engineering, The Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda. South of the campus is the department that churns out men who, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to assert, are the prime movers of India, and indeed the World as we know it. The Mechanical Engineering Department.
Yes, there are other departments on the campus: Electrical, Textile, Civil, Chemical, Computer Science, so and so forth. They are but peripheral. The Mechanical Department lives. Two huge wooden gates painted in white stand at the entrance. Their enormity, their wheel-shaped handles and their design make all entrants feel like a Maratha warrior riding past on a horse.
It is a fitting entrance for a department tha t houses glorious boilers, vintage diesel engines, long wind tunnels and a non-functioning replica of a turboprop. The administrative office houses an eclectic m ix of people. A tr ue-blue padiki connoisseur with ironed clothe s and copiously oiled Godrej b lac k hair, an old lady stationed at a lone chair at the bac k, her old expressionless eyes transfixed straight ahead, overseeing the happenings in the office through a pair of 1960s s pectacles, and a peo n who se demeanor betrays the tremendous efforts it takes for a man to stay awake. The padiki connoiss eur runs the show, chewing o n to gutka in his mouth, and detests all queries tha t canno t be resolved with a nod or a shake o f the head. For that means, he’ll have to spit ou t the juice blissfully swi shing around in his denta l setup. Efficient information sharing is the life blood of all successful institutions, and few do it better than the Mechanical Engineering department.
Towards the left, one finds a notice board displaying data – in color paint – on sound pollution in decibels caused by different means. Towards the right, han gs a notice for CNG Rickshaw drivers.
Quite the information that shall empo we r the Mechanical Engineers of tomo rr ow to tackle w hat far sighted MBA Finance students call the Volatile Complex Uncertain and Ambigu ous (VUCA) world. The Main Campus (Courtesy ftemsu-placements.org) Further on the way are the workshops. Workshops are to the Mechanical Department what jewelery is to a bride on her wedding day. First one to the right is m y favorite “Tu rning Shop”. It has about 5 operati onal lathe machines out of 15 odd installed over a wide area. The Turning S hop has large drums meant for winding steel scra p, a product of tur ning mild steel jobs on lathe machines. However, what goes in along with the steel scrap is red-colored paa n jets spat out by the lab assistant with a frequency that could put a lathe ‘s rotating flywheel to shame.
This noble activity renders the steel scrap thrown in the drum orange in colo r thus making for a visual treat unlike any other. In one desolate corner of the shop is a room for the workshop in-charge who prefers to consume his share of tobacco by smoking beedis in his wooden cabin. This cabin is a small area devoid of any ventilation, essentially making it a chimney closed at the top. Conservative estimates state spending 3 minutes i n this cabin is equivalent to smoking a couple of 501 beedis. Carpentry, Smithy, Welding and Fabrication. The hallowed places where fres hers hack and polish wooden pieces into plus-shaped assemblies, heat and hamme r cylindrical metal pieces into hexagonal objects and cut a U on bis cu it thick steel jobs. The workshops instill a life-lo ng respect for the skills in men they’ll go on to super vise and lead.
In today’s day a nd age of ‘engineering colleges’ set up in few floors of a building, the Mech Departm ent ‘s extensive workshops are of great significance, standing tall as guardians of grassroo ts learning. And in despe rate times of college fests and project submissions, the workshops turn into veritable divine shrines, where every one goes for solutions to their myriad problems. Further ahead on the way, at the centre of the department stands a Ganesha temple under a blue-colored dome structure. The temple is surrounded by tall lights powered by solar panels.
Towards the left is our neighborhood. One finds unfamiliar students sitting on an array of parked vehicles. Boys playing cricket with girls, sharing lunch packs with one another. Overall a very amiable environment with lots of noise and banter. This is the Textile Department.
Not the gate to Mech Dept, but indicative! (Courtesy ftemsu-placements.org) Towards the right, the ‘core area’ of the department begins.
Tarnished brick buildings of the shape of buttress threads carrying long fink roof trusses run parallel to each other on either sides of the road. At the fag end of this road, to the left lies the room used least. A small wooden board bolted on its door reads ‘Ladies Toilet’. Besides the place, a great deal of the department’s character comes from the strength of its people.
The staff in general and lab assistants in particular are a fascinating bunch of people. One of them with build of a bouncer doubles up as security during Vadodara Marathon events. With mouths stuffed to the brim with Rajshri, the lab assistants maraud across the department, hurling the choicest of expletives in Gujarati at each other. Even in good, friendly moments, they refer to each other as thokiya and keep reminding one another of the beedi or cha the other guy owes. Nonetheless, their ingenious ability to come up with practical solutions to problems is stuff of legend. Ever so often, students would walk up to any one of them.
A non-functioning rope pulley mechanism, a shaft that doesn’t fit well into its hole, or a car with faulty braking system. Chewing onto gutka, the lab assistant carefully listens to every problem, nodding and thinking hard. Deep in thought, he spits out the contents of his mouth with a violent force, as if disgusted with the fact that textbooks failed to teach us to solve such simple problems. And he would go on to explain the solution, practical and detailed to the extent of the exact shop in old city that ‘ll help out with the material or workmanship. They do not hold a degree in mechanical engineering, but the degree of their hold on mechanical engineering in true sense of the word is superlative. In a department with disproportionate male population, they are the men. Finally, a narrative on the department would be incomplete without a mention of the teachers.
Perhaps it comes from studying and practicing the subject for long years, but the Mechanical Engineering department houses a motley bunch of teachers, practical in their outlook and relaxed in approach. An Engineering Drawing professor travels to the college on a cycle and crafts isometric models from chart paper to explain the terrifying subject to terrified freshers. A Thermal Engineering professor draws parallels between mechanical engineering and Navaratri in his class, claiming, and with good reason, that both after all revolved around the worship of energy (E). A young teacher, in his first lecture, ridicules all numerical questions as impractical for it isn’t possible to measure quantities as determined on a calculator. In their free time, they congregate at a spot called ‘bakda’ and discuss, in loud voices, issues of national significance. Nestled within the campus, the mechanical engineering department is a world unto itself. A world one occupies for four years, only to become its lifelong admirer.
Deeply disturbed by the incessant sharing and relentless re-sharing of posts like “10 Reasons Why Gujjus are the Best People on Earth!”, I bring to you, as I must, the counter points. Dear Gujaratis, enough of your self-aggrandizing and megalomania on the internet. Travel Nuisance: Gujaratis, specially on holidays, travel in herds. Sadly, Indian Railways and IRCTC do not exist for exclusive use of Gujjus, and there’s a cap on number of tickets you can book in one go. Result is berths scattered across coaches.
But what to do? No matter how many we are, we HAVE to travel together, according to Article 37, Para 2 (b) of the Constitution of India. God help you if you are traveling alone on a line that remotely touches a popular holiday destination. Large, large groups of Gujjus will storm into your trains, and once they are done arranging their 18 tonnes of luggage ( 70% food, 30% utilities is the thumb rule), they will maraud from coach to coach, looking for those who are “single” – Gujju for traveling alone – and coax you for your berth because you know “Ame badha group ma che” and there are “laddies and nana chokra” and the classic “saathe jamvama takleef padse”. You change your berth, often twice or thrice, and still find yourself in company of Gujjus. It’s late night, and you want to sleep. But you can’t because Gujju ladies around are talking (loudly of course) about all the snacks they prepared and packed for this trip, the difficulties they faced while making them, arguments and counter arguments on the correct recipes, in between lambasting children to stop running around and finish their food.
Wait, your ordeal isn’t over. Some uncle in the group has his b’day tomorrow. The clock strikes twelve. You are in the clutches of sleep. A voice booms nearby “Ae halo, utho!
Dilip bhai no budday celebrate karvano he!” And then there are celebrations, complete with the cake, the singing ( happy budday to you followed by tum jiyo hajaro saal), and the clapping. In a moving train. By the time your journey comes to an end, the coach smells like a restaurant’s unventilated kitchen, its air heavy with the smell of thepla, dhokla, pickles, three types of fruit and on bad days, a half eaten cake.
Somewhere in the air, there’s also the smoke of your AC ticket money burnt to ashes, and your rage. We Gujjus are the odd ones out, a minority for which special provisions are to be made.And comments on B school forums and caste-centered op-eds will tell you, no majority likes to make special provisions for the minority. Festival Nuisance: Makar Sankranti is the first festival every new calendar year. While people across the country mark the beginning of harvest season, bathe in holy rivers, visit their near and dear ones, visit temples to perform religious ceremonies, Gujjus are slightly more traditional and understated in their celebrations of Uttarayana. As sun rises on 14th of January, a Gujarati rises to his terrace, armed with a bunch of kites and bulky spool of string, tiny shreds of glass in it glinting in morning sun.
Soon enough, the latest item song played at full blast rends the air. The entire city is on its terraces, water tanks, balconies – engaged in fierce kite battles, shrill war cries of lapppppeeeetttt and hooting and whistling and bollywood music all around.
Drowned somewhere in all the din and bustle is a desperate flutter of terrified birds. The sun sets and it is too dark to fly kites. But, WE ARE GUJARATIS AND THIS IS GUJARAT AND THE PARTY IS STILL ON!
So we light chinese balloons and dispatch them from the top of our terraces. So what if they might cause fire somewhere and result in huge losses? They make for great facebook pictures! And how do we cap a day of excellent kite flying and bird slaughter?
Fire crackers, of course! Gujaratis are too rich to buy fire crackers just for Diwali, and the chinese-lantern-lighting-potential-facebook-profile-pic-clicking ritual is followed by a round of lighting all fire-crackers from bombs to rockets right up there in the terraces. The force of explosion shakes buildings and rockets might fly off course to injure someone but – tu jalsa kar ne yaar! Navaratri (Rest of India) – a festival to worship nine forms of Goddess Shakti Navaratri (Gujarat) – Worship? Chalo garba ramva! Also, dandiya! Who has the time and the energy and importantly, the money to celebrate a festival nine days at a stretch?
Right, Gujjus. A Gujarati’s preparation for Navaratri can only be rivaled by a Bihari’s preparation for UPSC exams. Such are the stakes. Gujaratis pay their obeisances to the Goddess of Shakti by dancing around in circles, for hours together, to songs that go – yaad piya ki aane lagi, haay bheegi bheegi raaton meinplayed at loud, loud volumes. Make no mistake, Navaratri in Gujarat is a visual treat but an acoustic pain. Following nine nights of revelry, Gujjus celebrate Dusshera – the historic victory of Lord Rama over king Ravana, a victory of good over evil, of truth over falsehood – by gorging on fafda-jalebi.
What is the relevance of fafda-jalebi to Lord Rama’s victory? Did Lord Rama and his Vaanar Sena have fafda-jalebi for breakfast in Lanka the day they finally decimated Raavan? Or is it a Supreme Court directive? In Gujarat, Jai Shri Ram is Jai Shri.burps. Ram. Gujjus burst crackers on Uttarayan evening.
So you can imagine the level of celebrations on Diwali. The peculiar thing about Diwali in Gujarat is, it isn’t a one day or two day affair. It lasts for an entire week. The entire place comes to a virtual standstill. “DON’T YOU DARE ASK WHY.
WE ARE GUJARATIS AND THIS IS GUJARAT. WE ARE THE KINGS OF BUSINESS. WE ARE THE CREATORS OF WEALTH. WE ADD MORE TO THE GDP IN ONE YEAR THAN YOU DO IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE. SO WE CAN TAKE A WEEK OFF FOR A ONE DAY FESTIVAL, OKAY? Government’s failure in delivering basic services to its people, is fertile ground for shady private enterprise. The part of Madhya Pradesh where i work and roam, which is about the same, state road transport is like sanity in Bollywood remakes of Tamil/Telugu films – there is none.
To be fair, they haven’t yet built the roads too. And so, inter-city road transport is entirely at the mercy of private players that constitute the venerable Transport Mafia. Often, their bus service is just one of their businesses other interests being politics, mining, truck transport, construction and other such avenues of black entrepreneurship.
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Depending upon the condition of roads, they ply a variety of buses. This includes an ingenious jugaadment of the blue-colored Tata 407 bus, the ultimate epitome of rickety, where leg space is essentially a state of mind – to run on severely potholed roads that often see long traffic jams because aage truck ka axle toot gaya hai, and on routes that see lower demand. And of course, there are the Baalvo buses – yet another jugaad in the form of Tata/Eicher make buses that become Volvo solely by the virtue of “VOLVO” written in bold font on all sides of the bus – for longer duration runs on decent roads. The bus services are known by the names or surnames of their respective owners, the name being plastered at the top of front glass pane of each bus in their fleet. They do not have offices or ticket booking centers. There is no fixed time table too.
The timings of each operator’s buses, their frequency on a certain route, their parking area in the bus stand etc. Is a kind of tacit agreement between all the operators.
Every operator has a key man marauding about the bus stand and managing operations, ensuring the agreed-upon schedule between the operators is implemented to the letter. Under him is a team of helper, conductor and driver allocated to each bus. Irrespective of the operator, all buses have an inexhaustible playlist of love and longing themed songs from yesteryears. The tickets are in the form of small, rectangular pieces of cheap paper with the seat number written on them, and change due to the traveler, if any. On any route, the bus stops for anyone holding a jhola in one hand and waving the other. The bus might be filled to the brim, but there’s always some space for one more. A couple of weeks or so ago, I traveled to Anuppur to meet a couple of people in Kotma.
Anuppur, 260 odd kilometers from Jabalpur, is at Madhya Pradesh – Chattisgarh border and assumes its place in prominence by virtue of its proximity to Bandavgarh Tiger Reserve (150 km) and Amarkantak (80 km), besides housing a major thermal power plant and a sand mining belt. Kotma is a small town 40 km from Anuppur on Manendragarh road and is thus a corner of the state of Madhya Pradesh. The problem of public transport is all the more pronounced here, given the remote location coupled with a low population translates into very less demand for bus services. The private players, of course, wouldn’t ply their buses on routes that are not commercially viable. Plus, being a no man’s land between two states doesn’t help the cause. This was my second trip there, and knew of a bus that runs from Anuppur to Manendra via Kotma at 8 in the morning. For the return journey from Kotma to Anuppur, there are Tata Magic vehicles that start once there are enough people on board.
A very brief note on Tata Magic: The Tata Magic is an illustration of excellent product development. A four-wheeled public passenger vehicle that can seat 9-10 people is redefining short distance public transport, especially in rural areas. Tata Magic is being extensively used to ferry people over distances ranging from 20 km to 50 km.
A lot of people buying Tata Magic vehicles are young men from villages who invest a small amount of their own, and get the remaining amount financed, thus leading to business for the finance companies too. Their cause is being helped by the increasing road connectivity between villages through the Pradhan Mantri Gram Sadak Yojana. Good quality roads mean faster transit, lower wear and tear of vehicles and a better fuel efficiency. Being a four-wheeled vehicle, it is much safer than the bulky three-wheeled Piaggio auto-rickshaws, occupies lesser space on the road and can carry more people. Its compact version, called the Magic Iris, is being used for public transport in urban areas. Overall, the Magic series of vehicles are effective products that are improving the quality and safety of public transport.
At about 5:15 pm in the evening, as I was planning to return to Anuppur, I received information of a certain Mr. Gupta in Anuppur inquiring about one of our competition machines. I called him up. Gupta, in fact, lived in Funga, a small village midway between Anuppur and Kotma. We agreed to meet at Funga in the next half hour. Fortunately, a Funga-based Magic operator was about to leave from Kotma for his last trip of the day. We reached Funga at 6:15.
The operator warned me that from here, my only means of transport back to Anuppur would be a Pushpraj bus that started from Kotma at 6:30 and crossed Funga at 7:00. There wasn’t any bus after that till morning and the Magics too had called it a day.
At Funga, I realized my phone was dead Though, I had a spare phone, there was no means to retrieve Mr. Gupta’s phone number. There, at the crossroads, a man was idling on a cot in front of his kirana shop. To look important, I wore my company ID card and approached him “Bhaiya, Gupta ji se milna tha. Aap jaante hai unhe?” He scratched his grey stubble “Kaun Gupta ji?” “Kaantractor haidumper hai unke paas me” “Oh. Crusher waale Gupta ji?” “Ji, ji. Crusher bhi hoga unke paas” He took out his phone and dialed a number “unke saale ka number hai mere paas kaahe milna hai Gupta ji se?” “Chakke wali machine kharidni hai unheJCBusi ke chalte milna tha” “Hmm.
Mood toh bana rahe hai bhaiya” Meanwhile the call connected “Hello. Namaskaar bhaiya, Namaskaar.
Jija ji ka number deb arre woh JCB waale aaye hai Gupta ji se milna chaahat hai” I took down the number on my phone and dialed. It was 6:30 by the time Mr. Gupta reached. He insisted that we converse there on the road itself, so that we could keep an eye on the bus. He reiterated that the 7 pm bus was the only means of transport to Anuppur available now. I couldn’t afford to miss it.
At about a quarter to 7, completely against the run of play, the weather took a sudden turn. The searing heat that persisted all day long gave way to strong winds. Within moments, there was thunder, lightning and it began to rain We rushed to the nearby dhaba for shelter from the rain that was now coming down in sheets. The sky had turned pitch dark by now and the winds so strong, they made a swooshing noise. He ordered tea and we continued to discuss “Tata ka engine hai bhaiya aapko iske parts aur mistri aasaani se mil jayenge, aur turbo engine hai toh kam diesel me zyada taakat paida karega” “Hmm, nai Tata ka saamaan har jagah mil jaata hai. Yeh toh hai abhi humne dumper bhi uthaaye hai Tata ke” Somewhere behind us, a bus honked twice and and an engine roared. We turned around.
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A lightning struck across the sky and its white light lit up our surroundings for one ephemeral moment. The 7 pm Pushpraj was speeding towards Anuppur. The only available means of transport, gone. I stared at its fading red back lights. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go, while it rained and thundered all around. “Baithiye sir bike par, pakadte hai bus ko” It was Mr.
He put on his helmet and kick-started his bike. “Mil jaayega aapko bus. Abhi zyada door nai gaya” – the dhaba owner commented. Amidst the pouring rain, Mr. Gupta blasted his bike through the road. The bus’s red back lights were still in sight.
The bike’s speed touched 405060 even as the bus didn’t show any signs of slowing down. Honking wouldn’t have helped. The rains would drown out the sound. There were no street lights around. The bike’s headlight and the lightning were the only sources of light punctuating the blackness that engulfed us.
My pulse shot through the roof as we accelerated further to close in on the bus. Moments later, the bus showed first signs of slowing down. There was a huge pothole on the road.
We managed to close in on the bus as it slowly tided past the pothole. As we neared the bus, Mr.
Gupta honked and I shouted asking the bus driver to stop. Gupta overtook the bus and drove his bike in its path while I turned around and waved frantically. Three odd kilometers from Funga, we finally managed to catch the bus. I got down from the bike and thanked Mr. Gupta profusely. The fact that he took the pains to drive3 km in the rain to help out a stranger he met half an hour ago was touching.
I got into the bus, and as it waded through the potholed stretch to Anuppur, I wondered if the potholes and the practice of halting for anyone and everyone on the route was entirely bad At least, the adventure made it an evening to remember. The noon of 11th January combined the brooding, overcast sky of a monsoon dawn with chilly winds of a winter night. A dense fog enveloped all things more than a hundred metres away. The Intercity Express was running late by an hour. And as it happens on trains running behind time, as the destination approaches, more and more of the occupants got down every time it came to a halt. It could be a short stop at a station or a forced halt by the side to give a long-distance Superfast its right of way.
Often, the worth of a city or a town is determined by the trains that halt at its railway platforms and for how long. The Intercity Express screeched to a halt at its penultimate station – one that commanded a minute of Express and Passengers and little more than a half-hearted deceleration of the Superfasts. Like it is at countless small towns, sharing the fence with the railway station were a temple and a municipal school. The temple seemed to be more affluent of the two for the priest’s chants could be heard from a loudspeaker, put up at the feet of the temple’s flag, shivering from the chilly wind. A snack or a sweet – the food item a place claims it is “famous” for – is sold at its railway platforms. That and tea.
For this one town, its claim to culinary fame was potato wada – locally known as “Aloo Banda”. Five-six men carrying a basket full of piping hot potato wadas swamped the different coaches.
They dexterously switched between wrapping a couple of wadas and a lone mirchi in rectangular pieces of paper, handing them over through the window grill and collecting ten-rupee notes in return. Two or three men carrying tea kettle in one hand and “Indian Railways” marked paper cups in the other flocked in between. The signal light, vaguely seen through mist in the distance turned yellow, and a long honk overpowered the neighboring temple priest’s prayers while it lasted.
Passengers hurriedly moved into their coaches as the train slowly rumbled into motion. Like an afterthought, a fellow passenger munching on his wada while standing in the doorway asked a passing tea seller – “ kitne ki hai?” “5 rupaye“ “1 cup do” The tea seller – an old, thin man wearing a white shirt, grey pants and a grey waistcoat – got onto the steps of the moving train – it was already in motion and so, the tea seller didn’t have an option. He moved in as people in the doorway stepped aside. He poured a cup and held it as the passenger fished out a 10 rupee note from his wallet. “ Aap chai lenge?” – he asked a man who occupied the adjacent seat through the journey.
Amazing, how easily camaraderie develops between fellow travelers. Fantastic topic for research. The train steadily picked up its speed. It had to – it was running late by an hour. The fellow-traveler-turned-friend replied in the negative. Taking the cup of tea from the seller, the man handed him a ten rupee note.
“ Chhutta dijiye saabChhutta nai hai” The temple priest’s fading prayers were drowned out by another long honk, as if to reassure its passengers that there destination, finally, was next – and the train accelerated. Everyone in the doorway wondered, how could the seller possibly get down now, with the train speeding and end of platform near. Their gaze fixed at the man fidgeting with his wallet, looking for coins that could add up to a value of 5 rs. The tea seller looked out of the door, at the station’s name plank fixed at platform’s end, which was drawing nearer by the second. The man drew out 3 coins and handed them over.
Tea seller quickly glanced at them, and slipped them inside his trousers’ pockets. With the kettle in one hand, and paper cups in the other, he leaned out of the door. The train had by now picked up considerable speed. He paused for a brief second and leaped out onto the platform, bending ever-so-slightly as he landed and owing to momentum, ran three quick steps before coming to a steady halt. He smiled as the small crowd of us looked out of the door, amazed at how he never once looked off balance, as if this was a routine he had mastered.
Not a drop of tea spilled out of his kettle, and I doubt if the paper cups so much as creased. All for a cup of tea all for a sum of 5 rupees. Therein lied an important lesson for everyone in Sales, and indeed Life.
Some inestimable period of time ago, after overcoming great odds – that included mobilizing an army of monkeys, building a bridge to Sri Lanka, uprooting a mountain in the Himalayas and fighting sleepy giants angry at being woken up – Lord Rama finally killed evil king Ravan to emerge victorious. Ever since, Indians in India and indeed across the world celebrate the day every year to mark the triumph of good over evil, of satya over asatya, of love over hatred, and of course rejoice India’s first victory on Sri Lankan soil. The other day, at a railway station, I read a quote, in red capital letters on a yellow-colored t-shirt losing color due to repeated washing – “Life is like a bicycle. In order to keep balance, you must keep moving”, with “Life”, “Bicycle” and “Moving” in bigger font for effect. This holds true not just in the life of men, but in the life of a city as well. Vadodara, succinctly described as “big city in a small package” in a branding campaign, too is a city on the move.
The changes that I observed on my recent trip to Vadodara are not the changes that can happen in the span of a few months that I have been away. The changes have been gradual and were very much in process when I lived here. But, the nature of change is its nature cannot be identified by the one witnessing it every single day, by one who is a part of it.
And therefore, the changes, and their significance, dawned on me only after being away for a considerable period. At the exit of Vadodara railway station, lied the first telltale sign of growing economic prosperity of the city – auto rickshaw guys quoting astronomical rates, auto rickshaw guys behaving as if they are doing you a favor by ferrying you at unearthly hours, and that you are morally and legally bound to pay a premium for his services at 6 am in the morning. The new eateries coming up in the city are indicators of an increasing diversity and cosmopolitan culture. In a city where a large part of the population would shudder at the prospect of eating at a place that isn’t strictly “pure veg” for the fear that cooks might be using the same spoons and vessels for Veg and Non-Veg dishes, it is great to see an eatery called “The Great Chicken Hub”. In a city where sev usal has traditionally been the staple food, challenging the might of farsan and gaathiya heavyweights, there has come up a “Soups, Salads and Subs only” eatery called Quiznos. And the growing urbanization is underscored by the growing physical infrastructure. Tall, modern-looking, glass-paneled buildings are shooting up at numerous places.
Residential colonies and apartments are being constructed in areas that not long ago were considered to be outskirts. Their names too have changed.
Disowning that vast source of names for apartments and societies – the Hindu mythology – builders are giving their projects names like “Pacifica” and “Madrid County”, names that are meant signify modernity and luxury by the sole virtue of being in English. The area where I live, in the neighborhood of Nand, Pitambar, Kailash and Mathuranagri have come up “Orchid Bungalows” and “Venus apartments”. From sev usal to subs, from mathuranagri to madrid county, Vadodara is changing. I like to think for the better.
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