In the morning we woke to a surprise. The vehicle my friend had deployed to transport us to Delhi was a Second World War truck converted into a bus. It had been pulled in from an adjoining district, where it worked in a small town for the local school. It had a snout. Slightly open, as if it was having trouble breathing. A recent paint job - blue - that could not conceal its age. Fat round tyres with no tread on them. A two-by-two seats running its length along a narrow aisle.
The retired colonel examined it like a horse, walking all around it and feeling its flanks. He even tried the doors, opening and shutting them, as if lifting the flaps to check the gums.
He said, We used to have a couple of these in the regiment in the fifties. Solid fellows. They served Monty well at Alamein.
Should they be on the road? I asked hopefully.
In a museum, in a museum, he said, This should be in a museum.
But in India we know everything that should be in a museum is out on the roads being abused. From ideas to artefacts to buildings. People too, actually.
I said, Colonel sahib, will it make it to Delhi?
He patted its rump thoughtfully and said, It should, it should. It went all the way across the North African desert, didn't it?
The bus, as we would discover was the lesser anachronism. The greater were the two blokes who came with it. To appearance they seemed regular enough. Middle-aged Sikhs with flowing beards. One, the driver, greyer and older than the other. They wore loose turbans and spoke in a gutteral Punjabi. They were pleasant, offering to help with the loading.
When the driver picked up the first carton he said, You are carrying stones to Delhi?
I laughed and said No, books.
He said, Why? Delhi doesn't have enough?
I gestured at the cartons and said, These are our personal books.
He said, Books are a waste. My father used to say ploughing one field teaches you more about life than reading a hundred books. He pulled me out of school when I was in class five. he used to say if reading books gives you the answers then why is this country's ass in such a sling? All our leaders from Gandhi to Nehru have read thousands of books.
I said, that is true. Books are not all they are made out to be.
He said, Only one book matters. The Guru Granth Sahib. And you don't need to read it - you can just listen to it.
The younger one, the helper, said, Not a waste. They are an illness. Those who read books think they can understand life through them. Tell me , sahib, if you read a hundred books about tandoori chicken can you taste it?
The driver slapped him on the back and said, that's it! you bring chicken into everything!
It was only an example, said the helper.
With their assistance we loaded our belongings. the book cartons we jammed under, on and in between the seats. The motorbike we pushed into the aisle, and tied it at various places to the seats so it wouldn't roll.
When the engine caught we had to hang on to the seat bars. It was shaking as if readying to fall apart. We were sitting in the second row behind the driver, while his partner sat on the single front row next to him. Mercifully, after a few minutes the mad racket eased as the engine settled to a tolerable jitter. We sat and waved to the colonel and his wife while the driver let the engine warm up. It was seven-thirty on a cold winter morning and the colonel was wearing his suit and tie. His beard was netted in flawlessly, and shining. Mrs Colonel was more real in a flowery kaftan and shawl. The kaftan had wide gaping armholes, when she lifted her hand to wave i could see her fleshy armpits.
The driver put the bus into gear and it jumped like a rabbit. We almost banged our faces into the front seat. Mr and Mrs Colonel jumped back too; and with a tremendous outpouring of black exhaust and an infernal rattling we were off. Both our transporters adjusted their turbans, which had slipped down around their eyes.
The journey did not turn out to be bone shaking. Mostly because the bus travelled at thirty kilometers an hour. The driver set the vehicle on the left verge and let it roll slowly. Everything overtook us. Trucks, buses, cars, bikes, scooters. Even mopeds and tractor trolleys. We were slow enough for young boys on bicycles to grab the rear mudguards and bum a quick ride. We were slow enough to need no braking at the police's zigzag barriers. We were truly worthy of the Grand Trunk Road, the subcontinents greatest artery, through which courses five hundred years of history. Mostly pellmell and at breakneck speed.
The two sardars chatted away amiably, looking back once to enquire if all was well with us. For the first hour we were on the edge of our seats, wondering how the journey was going to pan out. then we began to relax a little as the morning mist faded and we hit a relatively clean stretch. But the relief was not to last. Suddenly, on a guttural command from the driver, the helper reached under his seat, picked up a dirty red brick and handed it across. The driver leaned down and in a practised move removed his right foot from the accelerator and replaced it with the brick. The bus barely jerked. The driver put both his legs up on the seat and crossed them. then he settled down to steering with one hand, while he massaged his feet with the other.
We almost passed out.
Fizz said, Sardar sahib, you really want to take us to god not to Delhi?
The driver said, Bibiji, you can only go to god when you are invited. No one can take you there.
Fizz said, But Sardar sahib, you are trying hard to get an invitation, aren't you.
The helper said, Don't worry Bibiji. Nothing will happen. Singh sahib's growing old. His legs give him trouble now. A little rest and he'll have his foot back on the pedal. And it's a good brick. Bricks hold up massive houses. What's an old bus?
There was nothing we could say to that.
The driver massaging his toes with his left hand said, Bibiji, don't worry. If anything happens, it is we who will die first. We sat back and mulled the consolation.
Fizz said to me, Well, at this speed i suppose it is difficult to have a fatal accident.
True to their word, nothing happened and fifteen minutes late the foot was back on the accelerator. The journey proved a long one. As the day wore on it acquired the air of a voyage. We stopped for water. For tea, To eat. To pee. We stopped to cool the engine. To pour water into the radiator. We stopped to fix punctures: the tyres were bursting like balloons every few dozen kilometers. We stopped to pray. At gurudwaras, roadside shrines. Once the driver said he had to go to Pakistan. He filled a can of water and disappeared into the fields. Near Panipat the engine copped it. The tow of them pulled out heavy wrenches and disappeared under the bus. We took a walk amid the juicy green wheat stalks. When they emerged they were smudged with grease, but the engine was alive. They told us to guard the bus and went off to a pounding-tube well to bathe.
It was all worthy of the Grand Trunk Road.
We munched glucose biscuits and pondered our future.
Through it all the two of them stayed peaceful, bantering away with each other and dishing out philosophic calm to us.
The brick kept going on an off the accelerator. Each time it went on, Fizz closed here eyes and squeezed my hand.
The Chandigarh-Delhi trip, which normally takes five hours., ended up taking us nearly twelve. By the time we reached the outskirts of Delhi it was getting dark. the last stretch of double-laning after Panipat had made for a particularly merry ride, but now as we neared Delhi we saw dramatic and dark change come over our transporters.
As we chugged up the embankment to the circular road that opens like a pincer around Delhi their voices began to die. The traffic was getting busy and headlights darted about. Trucks and buses were muscling for space. Every few minutes one of them would glance at us and say, Is this the way home? Are we on the right road? How much further is it to your home?
With much confused stop-go driving we negotiated the bottleneck at the juncture of the pincer and turned left into the circular road. Their panic levels eased a little as the traffic flow became one-way again. They kissed the verge once more, allowing the speedy cars, buses and trucks to hurtle past. they resumed talking. but no longer was it expansive philosophising. Their voices had an anxious trip now. The talking tome that's fighting fear. they ribbed each other in hollow voices about the traffic. The steering hand seemed to have acquired a little jitter. Fizz and I sat on the edge of our seats.
We made it past Majnu ka Tilaa and the bustling interstate bus terminus without any real crisis. But inside the bus the tension was deepening. The brick had been put away for good. the driver was leaning into the glass, concentrating. His partner was doing the same, and shouting out instructions in a high pitched whine, Watch that Maruti! Cut right! There's a bus coming in on your left! Oh, don't kill the fucking cyclist, sardarji!
The driver had gone utterly and dangerously silent.
One with his jerking animal, which he was struggling to steer.
Then we slipped behind the medieval bulk of the Red Fort and swam into a river of traffic. it was swollen with office disgorgements and fed by surging tributaries from Shahdara and Daryaganj. Hundreds of buses, cars, scooters, three-wheelers lapped around us, honking, screeching, shouting. Our man, the driver finally lost his nerve. At the red light between Shahjahan's fort and Mahatma Gandhi's serene memorial he marooned the bus and would not move.
I don't know what happened, but when the red light changed to green the driver failed to budge. For some reason the floor gear-shift was stuck and he could not engage it. As he struggled with it, pulling and tugging, all hell broke loose around us. Behind us a hundred drivers detonated a medley of horns and the sound was deafening. As the seconds ticked by people began to hammer on the side of the bus and shout abuse. Faces showed up in our windows, snarling and screaming. We too exhorted the two to move, but the driver couldn't work the gear. His face had gone pinched and pale, and in a flashing lights it shone with sweat.
We wanted to hide under the seats.
An urchin boy selling glistening coconut slices threw open our window, pushing his grinning head in and sang, Gaard phati toh har koi bola! Hajmolo! Hajmolo!
Hands began top yank at the doors, rattling them.
Suddenly two distinct sounds cut through the cacophony. One a police whistle, shrill and clean, the other a police siren, rhythmic and cutting. I looked out and the policeman at the lights was running across from the other end blowing madly and waving his arms. To his left was a police jeep, threading through the traffic, red light blinking. A man was leaning out gesturing his fist.
The helper said, Singh sahib, get ready to be buggered.
The driver said not a word. He continued to struggle with the gear. He had turned on his side now and was using both his hands. The engine idled.
The lights turned back to red.
All those trying to squeeze past our bus began to bang its sides harder in frustration.
The bus rocked gently.
The policeman flung open the driver's door and shouted, Maaderchod! Who allowed you to bring this breadbox into the city? Why don't you move?
Only his head was visible through the door, and behind him could be seen a host of angry muttering faces, several in shiny helmets with visors pushed up. The engine was idling and they couldn't understand why we were not moving.
Another grinning urchin boy selling tissue paper pushed his head in through our window and shouted Chinchpokli! Chinchpokli! Hello, mr Chinchpokli!
I could see the grinning coconut boy behind him.
The driver did not even have the courage to turn around. His eyes were clouded and he was pulling with all his strength.
Fizz said, Do something, mr chinchpokli! he's going to die.
I looked at her. The urchin boy had killed me. Chinchpokli: suburb of fantasia. From whence rolled out film song requests that clogged the radio waves. She would nail me with that ludicrous epithet for the rest of my days.
I stood up and said, Arre, sahib, the gears got stuck.
The policeman rounded on me, Maaderchod! You must be the owner of this fucking breadbox!
The cop from the jeep showed up behind him and said, Lock all these bastards up! And impound this fucking biscuit tin!
The first cop shouted, Pull the tin can over to the side and get down all you stupid dicks!
Just then the lights turned green and the chaos of horns erupted. A flurry of hands drummed on the bus. Abuse filled the air.
Suddenly the helper in a rush of manic desperation jumped up and yelled, Move back, sardarji. Let me do this!
He pushed the driver away and grabbed the gear-stick with both hands. Then he threw his head back like Tarzan and roared, Jo bole so nihal! Sat sri akal!
And with an almighty heave he pulled the gear-stick clean out of the floor.
Fizz said, Omigod! Omifuckingod!
Right in between the ostentatious seat of Shahjahan's power and the austere cremation ground of Mahatma Gandhi, in the middle of Delhi, lapped by vehicles from every side, the helper stood swaying, the iron gear-stick held aloft like a sword, the bus dead at his feet like a cheetah. A medieval warrior in a modern age, who had just killed the animal he had set out to save.
Puzzlement flooded his face. He said, What is this?
The rod had a smooth wooden knob at one end and dark dripping grease at the other.
The driver said, Theoneandtruegodbemerciful! Bemerciful!
And he closed his eyes.
Where the gear once grew, next to the driver's seat, now lay a dark oily hole.
The engine idled steadily.
Fizz said, Can you drive without a gear?
The helper looked as if he had gone to grab a sugar cane and caught a snake instead.
The cop who had clambered on said, Move this tin can! Move this tin can! , do you move it? Where is the bloody gear?
Without a word, with a deferential bow, the helper presented him with the dripping gear.
The cop shouted, What is this maaderchod? Move this tin can! Where's damn gear?
The driver chanted, Theoneandtruegodbemerciful! Bemerciful!
Shut up, you dickhead! said the cop. Then he looked around. Saw nothing resembling a gear. And went apoleptic. You sad bastards! he screamed, You brought a bus to Delhi without a gear! A bus without a gear. Maaderchod! Chutiyas! Brought a bus to Delhi without gears! A bus without gears! What do you have - mouths without assholes? Balls without pricks? Which gutter in Punjab have you all crawled out from!
Fizz said, The gear is in your hand, constable sahib.
This! he screeched, This is the fucking gear! Then what is it doing in my hand?
He looked like he had caught the snake now.
He threw it back to the helper.
The cop from the road said, Lock the whole bloody lot of pimps up! And impound the damn biscuit tin!
At that another manic fit swept the helper. He shouted, Teri maa di phudi maari! And holding the gear-stick in both hands like a javelin he slammed it into the hole in the floor. It didn't catch. He pulled it out and slammed it back in. And then, like an axe murderer in a low-budget film, he went beserk, stabbing at the hole in a frenzy, while invoking everyone's mothers' cunts.
The cop leapt back in alarm; even the driver opened his eyes and edged away.
Fizz said, Mr chinchpokli, our mothers are in danger.
The helper hammered on, And your mothers cunt! And your mothers cunt!
The cop from the road said, Oh, the bloody sardar has gone mad! Take him out of here!
The cop on the bus struck a sterner pose and shouted, Sardar! Get a grip on yourself!
The helper stopped mid-plunge and looked at the cop wildly.
The cop said warily, leaning back, Sardar, take it easy. Everything is OK.
The driver said, Theoneandtruegodbemerciful! Bemerciful!
The driver raised his javelin on high - the cop cowered - and plunged it down with all his strength, screaming like a banshee, You motherfucking hag, I stick this gear into your vulva so that you squeal like a virgin!
His face was twisted in a grimace, and his turban was askew and beginning to unwind.
Fizz said, He's raping the bus?
But when he tried to pull it back this time, he could not. the gear had caught.
A demented smile broke on his face. It's caught, he said, It's caught! Bugger the whole damn world, it's caught! Glory to your mothers cunt, it's caught!
The driver joined his hands, closed his eyes, tilted his face up in prayer and shifted the gear. it engaged. The bus jumped like a rabbit.
We all lurched uncontrollably.
Fizz said, The Gemini Circus hits the road.
Everyone around the bus scattered. The lights were red, but the cop on the road blew his whistle: Let them go!Let them go! Let the dickheads go screw someone else's happiness!
The cop on the bus shouted, O sardar, let me down! your acquaintance is long enough, I don't want your friendship! I promise I won't forget the two of you till i retire!
The driver said, Theoneandtruegodbemerciful! Bemerciful!
***
The two did not speak another word till we reached our apartment. After we unloaded, I took them up and sat them on the terrace. I gave them a quarter of whiskey and then went and got some food from the market. Their hands were still shaking and they were quiet. When they had eaten and the whiskey was warm in their veins, they told me they had never been to Delhi before. In fact they had never been north of Chandigarh; they had never driver the bus anywhere outside of their little town.
When asked to make this trip, they had figured it was a good opportunity to expand their horizons, see the world. See the Red Fort, the Qutub Minar, Chandi Chowk.
I said, Yes, you should see them tomorrow.
The helper said, We have seen enough to last us a lifetime. Now all we want to do is show our ass to Delhi.
The driver said, We reckoned how big could Delhi be? It couldn't be much bigger than Chandigarh.
The helper said, Turned out to be an elephant's cunt!
Some of the bravura was returning. They went off to sleep in the bus. At about two in the morning Fizz and I were woken by the house bell shrilling hysterically. When I looked down from the terrace both of them were standing next to the gate looking up, wrapped in their grey blankets, tightening and tucking their turbans.
It turned out they couldn't sleep. They wanted to leave immediately. when Delhi lay dead. It's people dead, it's policemen dead, it's vehicles dead, it's traffic lights dead. They wanted me to put them on one straight road that would lead them clean out of the city. I explained the way, and drew a bold diagram on a big sheet of paper. They shook my hand warmly, clasping it in both their hands, and said, Forgive us for all our errors and lapses.
I said, You were both wonderful. Thank you for everything.
I meant it.
The bus engine rattled, juddered, then settled down. The open snout looked as if it was gulping in the cold night air. The driver prayed to the picture of Guru Nanak above his windshield and put the bus into gear. It jumped like a rabbit. They waved. Their faces were still white and drawn. The average age of the three of them, the driver, the helper and the bus, was more than that of modern India.
They were going back with the defining story of the rest of their lives.
***
In seconds they were gone. In a few minutes the sound of the engine died too.
I stood in the middle of the street - in the middle of the silence and the cold and the dark - for a long time. I felt sad. Namelessly sad. I didn't remember the last time I had cried. It didn't come easily to me. But now I wanted to sit down in the street and cry.
It had to do with the two of them hurtling back in the night, furtive and alone. The fineness of their spirit and the meanness of the world. I knew how large-hearted they were; and how easily they could be overwhelmed. It was the story of the rural and the tribal everywhere. The tale of all-who-will-be-swiftly-dispossessed. They approach the new world with a generosity of spirit - as can only be reaped from working the land. But the modern world has no value for it. They are stranded on the cross-roads of history; quickly overrun by the surging traffic of development and growth; stopped by the red light of new-fangled laws and economic theses; impounded by the gendarmes of corporate kings.
Those who try to grab the situation by the scruff of the neck find it upended altogether. They are left holding the gear-stick of their lives in their hands with the engine humming elsewhere and no way to go and nowhere to go.
They are left to play a game they did not choose. With rule they do not know.
The world survives by those who have generosity of spirit.
But it is owned by those who have none.
