Company For The Journey

Company for the journey I settled down in my seat and looked out at the stately building of Udaipur Bus Terminal melting in the fierce sun, barely visible through the tinted glasses of the luxury coach. It was a relief that I had finally been able to make it. Till yesterday it had looked like I’d have to postpone the vacation yet again. More than disappointed, I had felt terribly tired. First they’d mention in every Departmental meeting that what I needed was a break and then, just when I’d plan a getaway, they’d come up with something that simply ‘had to be done!’ Twice it had gone that way and a hat-trick was on the cards till well past 4 when, to my relief, news came that the Minister had put off his trip. And so, here I was, well ensconced in the A/C Deluxe ‘Volvo’ on a week long trip to Jaipur. I had never travelled on this sector before. It should be fun. I wished I had the window seat. However, the seat next to me had not been taken yet and I thought maybe I’d get lucky. But just then a thin young man entered the bus, looking a bit confused while making his way to where I was sitting and once there, indicated the seat next to me. I nodded and adjusted my legs so as to allow him to pass. After fidgeting for a minute or two, he settled down and immediately closed his eyes, his fingers drumming distractedly on the briefcase he was carrying with the initials R.R. pasted on it. He looked all right but for the red scarf dangling from his neck. I gazed out of the window and, then, at the conductor sitting ten rows ahead of me, hoping he’d give the signal for the bus to start which he did shortly but not before the delay had exercised enough the patience of a fellow passenger who began to holler at the driver. As the bus rolled out of the city, I relaxed into my comfortably designed and tastefully upholstered seat, all determined to have a nice sleep after a long, long time. The woman sitting behind me had already started to snore gently and the man next to me was already dead to the world around him but for the movement of his fingers and his lips. I, too, closed my eyes but here, as in my room, sleep would not come at my bidding. Presently, I decided to get up and take the walkman out of my bag and duly reached for the overhead locker but, positioned as I was, it was difficult to unzip it and take out the walkman. I struggled for a bit, noting that if only my co-passenger would adjust his legs for a minute, it would make my task simpler. But he took no

notice and just continued sitting there with his eyes closed, tapping on his briefcase and moving his lips inaudibly, a tense look on his face. After a little while I found the walkman and surrendered myself to the music. Shortly thereafter, I started to feel cold. The A/C was certainly not doing me any good. I could feel a shiver travelling right across my body and looked around to see if others too were getting uncomfortable. But no, they were doing just fine, while the fellow next to me was…I could not see him for just then the light inside the bus was switched off. I folded my hands across my chest and hoped I’d drop off to sleep before the cold got too much for me. I must have dozed off for perhaps twenty minutes before a sharp turn by the bus jolted me back to consciousness. I was now really cold and decided to walk up to the conductor to do something about it. It was difficult to make my way across in the dark and more so to explain my problem to him. He looked at me in a rather lost fashion before advising me to try using the buttons above my seat (“They are there for a purpose, Sir,” he remarked caustically). Embarrassed, I returned to my seat and fidgeted with the paraphernalia but to no effect. The damn thing would not shut off. However, I was sufficiently unnerved to try accosting the conductor again and decided to curl myself up and manage as best as I could. It was, perhaps, after two hours or so that the bus stopped at a motel and the conductor, switching on some of the lights, let it be known that the stop would be for twenty minutes only. I felt cramped due to the cold that had seeped into my system and decided to step out for a cup of tea. As I stood up, I accidentally dropped my mineral water bottle on the floor. Bending down to retrieve it, I heard my copassenger’s continued tapping on his briefcase. In the dim light, I searched for his face. His eyes were still closed. Well… The moment I stepped out of the bus, I felt slightly better. With the tea cup in my hand, I decided to walk up to the conductor who was standing some distance away, surrounded by a group of people who were, apparently complaining to him about something. Maybe the A/C only, I thought. The conductor saw me while I was still some paces away and enquired loudly if I was all right now to which I replied in the

negative and indicated that I was still finding it very cold to be in the bus. He looked at me strangely and then stated that perhaps I had a fever. No, I said, I do not think so. Would he please do something about the A/C? At this, he just stared at me as if I were some crank pot. I asked if he could change my seat and he mentioned something about shifting to the seat next to me and then walked away. Talk of crank pots! I looked around. The halt had already extended beyond the stipulated twenty minutes and promised to stretch further. I sauntered off to a ‘music’ shop nearby, and purchased two cheaply packed, pirated CDs. Deciding to fetch my walkman, I got on to the bus and as I did so, my eyes fell on the only person inside - my co-passengerstill sitting in his seat, drumming away, his lips moving silently. I found it odd... not knowing why, I felt a slight trace of panic and hurried out after picking up the walkman. The stopover was a long one but I did not mind it. It was more comfortable outside. Besides the ‘cold’ factor, I was reluctant to get into the bus for an entirely different reason. My co-passenger had started to worry me somewhat. While outside, I had chanced to look up at my window and there he was, leaning against the seat back. I could not see his eyes but it appeared they were still closed. Anyhow, finally, everyone trooped in, I bringing up the rear and the bus started. My co-passenger continued to tap the briefcase and twitch his lips and very soon, I started feeling cold again… The stop at the motel was hardly behind us when the bus came to a halt again. I was surprised that hardly anybody registered a protest against such frequent stoppages. The conductor opened the door of the bus and stepped outside, after switching on every light installed in the bus. There was no bus stand anywhere in sight, not even a semblance of one. I was looking through the window on the other side when I sensed my co-passenger making a movement and, turning back, I saw him get up against the light of the truck coming from the opposite direction, his brief case in hand. I made way for him and he went down the aisle, one hand on the scarf that was still tied to his throat and the other clutching at the briefcase. The conductor must have known him well enough to stop the bus at this place without even being asked to do so or maybe he had apprised the conductor that he’d alight here while boarding the bus at Udaipur.

Anyway, he got down and as he passed below my window, I saw him gazing up at me, his slim profile illuminated by the powerful beam of some vehicle parked just behind our bus. There was nothing remarkable about him. He really was all right, you know...quite presentable but for his scarf. I looked at it, fluttering a wee bit in the wind, and, and… dripping wet! With sweat, no doubt and here I was, chilled to the bone!!! He went past the conductor without the two exchanging any words and was out of sight. A little later the conductor hopped in and the bus started again, crossing a river shortly thereafter. But, for some strange reason, it did not pick up speed for another ten minutes or so. Gradually I began to feel better and was just preparing to sleep when the bus made a queer noise and then the engine went dead. Within a minute, the conductor was swamped with shouts from irritated passengers. Many vocal chords were strained in unison and the driver-conductor duo was addressed in very non-salutary terms. Most men got off the bus and after waiting for a brief while, I went down too. This certainly was not a very good start to my vacation. The driver had disappeared beneath the bus but the poor conductor had no such means at hand to escape the wrath of the passengers and was evidently having a tough time. Everybody was making quite a din and it was difficult to make out anything. After a few minutes, the driver emerged saying that he could not quite make out the cause for the engine problem and so, it could be due to Rahibur Rehman. He was immediately shouted down by the others including the conductor, “Shut up! You know as well as we do that we are past Panchal Bridge. Besides, did we not stop at Rukhsar?” “Past the river, yes…but not past the bridge. It extends for another 200 meters and…,” remarked the driver. “Oh, shut up! Why scare them, you fool?” admonished the conductor. It was all very nonsensical to me. They were shouting Rukhsar repeatedly and then some people right next to me started amongst themselves, “First the A/C does not work and then this. This bus is rotten. Cheats, this is what these people are…”

I started. A/C not working? What was going on here? Wait a minute. A/C was very much on and had very nearly killed me. I raised my voice and conveyed as much to them upon which a man standing near me, with a look in his eyes that I did not like, said slowly and clearly, “Mister, the A/C has stopped working altogether. Why else do you think the windows of the bus were opened some half an hour before we reached the motel? At the motel we complained but to no effect. And now…anyway, you were better off than us. At least you had a vacant seat next to you. More airy. We were all swamped by the heat.” It stunned me. So, that was what they were complaining about at the motel and I had thought…but I had felt so cold. Was I ill? It was…I could not go on and looked around foolishly, trying to find my bearings. And what was all this about a vacant seat? I almost barked at the man; ““Excuse me, my neighbour just got down a brief while ago. What vacant seat are you talking about?” “Come on, you don’t… ” but he could not finish as just then another bus bound for Jaipur passed that way and its crew got down to assist us. However, all they could manage was to locate the problem upon which our driver went along with them to try procuring the necessary spares from the nearest town ahead. Estimating that he’d be gone for at least an hour, everyone dispersed in small groups alongside the road talking about this and that. I, too, drifted to one such group, walking along with it back towards the river. People were animatedly discussing that mysterious entity, Rahibur Rehman. “Yes, he was stabbed and then thrown off on this very bridge. And all because of…,” remarked a passenger who was evidently well aware of the story, whatever it was. “Anger, brother, anger…too bad… the worst human emotion,” was the philosophical summing up of the man standing behind me. “What happened here?” I asked hiding my curiosity and trying to sound casual.

“What? You do not know? Admitted it happened more than two years ago but I thought it was still on everyone’s mind…I mean who can forget? So tragic, so unnecessary…,” he was cut off by another. “In any case, these bus wallahs do not allow anyone to forget, do they?” joined a Pathan. “They will stop their buses at Rukhsar, no matter what…,” and then, turning towards me, “maybe you are new to this part of the country, Sir. Rahibur Rehman was stabbed by the conductor of the bus he was travelling in on this very route. He was returning home to his village…he was anxious and he was tired… eyes closed in prayer for his ailing mother…When the bus neared Rukhsar he got up to leave…there was no scheduled stop at Rukhsar but he did not know that and so when the bus appeared to pass Rukhsar without stopping he yelled at the conductor …” “What I have never understood is; what were those thirty odd passengers doing? Nobody came to his rescue…skunks, all of them! And, then, for all of them to say that they did not see anything, it being dark in the bus and that they did not hear much due to the sound of the engine etc etc…pure baloney, I tell you!” chimed in a Bengali and I could have torn him to pieces for interrupting. “Well, it must have happened very fast…” “Not so fast…he was stabbed three times…that is not a minute’s job…there was shouting and pushing around,” the Bengali interjected. “Come on, you don’t think they would all have been quiet had they actually seen something, do you? I mean, what had they to gain from…” “What happened? What…,” I could not contain myself and almost shouted at the Pathan to resume. “Oh…well, he yelled…some say he abused the conductor who in any case was very drunk and in a foul mood. There was an altercation…the cleaner joining in and the driver, meanwhile, stepping on the accelerator instead of stopping the bus, shouting obscenities over his shoulder…Rahibur tried to make his way to the door and in the

process shoved the cleaner aside…some say he may have hit him but I doubt it… anyway, the cleaner stumbled, hit his head against the door and started to bleed whereupon the conductor standing just a step behind Rahibur, took something out from his pocket and stabbed Rahibur in the neck thrice, then yanked open the door of the bus…the damned vehicle moving all the time, mind you…and shouting, “You want to get out, you want to get out…go, go, go…,” over and over again, threw Rahibur out of the bus and on the bridge…The bus stopped…and then…moved on. In the trial the driver said he stopped the bus and Rahibur got down…that he was not stabbed, just shoved out of the bus…,” “Yes, such is the Law…my foot! Total miscarriage of justice…this legal system...,” interposed the Eternal Interrupter, the Bengali. “What could the Judge do? Tell me? None of the passengers could contradict the conductor’s sworn statement as they reportedly saw nothing…the cleaner seconded the story, no weapon was found anywhere…no witnesses to support the prosecutor’s case and the testimonies of the driver and the cleaner besides the denial of the conductor…what else could be done?” The Bengali was not to be silenced. “And now, these imbecilic bus wallahs make it a point to always stop at Rukhsar- no matter what - and then drive at death’s pace till they are not well clear of Panchal Bridge as if some great calamity would befall them if they don’t …” “Or, may be, to express their grief at what happened,” observed somebody. The Bengali glowered at him. “Ha! Not them. More likely to cleanse their whole community of their crime… Meanwhile, they continue to commit further crimes. What happened today- was it any less? These buggers knew they had a problem with the A/C and the engine before they started, I’m sure. But…”

He was not allowed to finish as several voices drowned off his stupid drawl. I could only bring myself to ask the man beside me: “Where was he stabbed?” “What?” “Where was Rahibur stabbed? What part of the…” “The neck…stabbed through a handkerchief.” Meanwhile, the Bengali had managed to make himself heard again. “Ya, ya…next you all would be saying that it was all Rahibur’s fault, eh? He should have asked the conductor before boarding the bus whether it stops at Rukhsar or not and not having done that, should have continued to sit peacefully till he reached Timbuctoo…enjoying the drive while his mother lay ill in the village… All of you are fools…FOOLS…why did the conductor not say that the bus does not stop at Rukhsar when Rahibur was purchasing the ticket from him at Udaipur itself, tell me? Tell me, I say! All said and done, was there any ground for stabbing a man that brutally and leaving him on the road to die?” “No ground. But nobody could prove who stabbed him…that’s the issue. That’s the issue, Sir.” “Bah! You all…,” almost shouted the Bengali, choking with anger. We had by then walked up to the main portion of the bridge and from the faces of the participants one could make out that the ‘discussion’ was getting rougher. But I had stopped listening and was trembling violently. The man beside me noticed this and enquired whether I was ill. I was too shaken and collapsed right there on the bridge. Immediately, a couple of passengers reached out for me. The near silence that ensued thereafter as they tended to me unnerved me further and when I heard someone in the group mention almost inaudibly that the place where I had fallen down was exactly

where Rahibur was found the morning after the incident, my nerves, already jangled beyond belief, could no longer take the strain. I yelled out loud, “Rahibur’s ghost travelled with me today…he was there, he was there…” I kept on yelling till I had no strength left and then the Bengali spoke almost contemptuously: “This tops it for the day for me …so much baloney!” I eyed him murderously but could not say anything, worn out as I was and still trembling in every limb. The Bengali continued to speak and I continued to shake my head till the Pathan spoke gently, almost in my ear: “Rahibur is still alive…in his village. Prostrate. For life. Injury to the spinal cord and the head. No memory of the incident. Calm yourself. You are not well. It will be all right soon. Just rest, ok? Don’t shake your head again…ask anyone, what I am saying is true. He is alive and not a ghost. Just relax please.” I froze. This was not for real. I was carried to the bus but when they tried to lower me on to my seat, I started screaming and they had to put me in another seat. I kept traversing the thin line between consciousness and haziness; not aware of the passage of time, of the driver’s return with the spares or of the bus starting again and making its way through sleepy villages and nondescript hamlets till it entered Jaipur and stopped at the bus stand. The Pathan, who had sat right next to me all through, enquired if I were all right and, not getting any answer, took help of other passengers to bring me out of the bus. It was when my feet touched the ground that I suddenly remembered and after that I was in control of my physical self. I thanked them profusely and started to walk towards the washroom. Once there, I threw cold water on my face and lifted my eyes to look in the mirror. I saw myself as I was that day two years and some months ago, strolling outside the bus terminus at Udaipur, being approached by a young, thin man sporting an outlandishly red scarf, in a state of great haste and confusion, pointing towards a Volvo bus parked nearby and enquiring, “Does this bus stop at Rukhsar?”, and I, nodding my head in the affirmative just like that, not really caring and then, seeing him run for the bus that had already started to drive away, wanting to stop him and giving up without even trying, thinking…what the hell! It does not really matter…in any case he is already in the bus and it is too

late to tell him that I do not even know where the bus is headed for, let alone where it stops or where it does not and that I have never heard of Rukhsar in my life… Too late.

2007-08 (3590 words)