RELATIVES AND BTS

BTS was a cartoonist’s delight. It was the favourite of the daily DeccanHerald’s cartoonist Murthy. The overflowing crowds in the bus which had a few layers of people hanging out of the footboards and the picture of some on the ladders ( which was a privilege provided only in a few buses) provided in the rear was a sight to behold. The Bangalore trademark motto “Swalpa Adjust Maadi” owes it genesis to the Bangalore Transport Service. It is a different story that not many are even aware today of the official motto either in letter or in spirit. Any two seater would easily have three persons and the rear seat could easily accommodate two extra occupants. The cop who was the source of threat to all kids was the genial man who would rise to give up his seat and would always ensure that he holds the last rungs in the multi layered footboard. No Olympic gold medallist could match these artisans in clinging to the window bars of the bus with a nimble edge of one foot perched at a miniscule space in the footboard while the other was cautiously avoiding the scraping of the top surface of the road on which the bus was plying at an angle which no driver today with all his degrees could lay claim to. A couple of layers would be provided as a protective layer to the front door if warranted by chivalrous men. In fact, one has to give the credit to these young doyens who were confronted with added distractions of the opposite sex apart from the chatter which would provide fodder for their leisure time amusement.
It was in this era, one old (sic) young man who must have been in his late sixties with a few gray hair bordering a bald pate made an aggressive posture and took position in the penultimate ring on the footboard. One mischievous (as described by the denizen in question) co foot boarder requested him in impolite terms “Ajja, (the Kannada term for the post of grandfather) swalpa olage hogthira? (will you please move inside?)” The man in his impeccable white dhothi rose from his normal height of less than five feet to full stature and asked “Yaaro Ajja (Who is grandfather), My grandchildren are toddlers not full blown men like you. “ The man went on to list the attributes of a grandfather and in his seething anger remarked, “For a person of your age, a grandfather must be incapable of moving out of his home or may have reached the abode of Yama” . The young collegian who had listened all this while with a sense of amusement went red in rage. He started questioning the authority of the handsome man with the bald pate rimmed with gray hair to consign his grandfathers to the bed or to the graveyard. He wanted respect and an apology. The fellow commuters sensing serious trouble brewing from the generation gap proactively counseled the two gladiators on the rung. However, neither was willing to be pacified.
The redoubtable conductor waded through the sea of humanity from the front end of the bus bellowing reason to prevail. All commuters on whose toes he stepped diligently pardoned him without even a murmur in the light of the highly volatile atmosphere. Soon, the master of the bus had reached the venue of the war of words. Quickly, he sought an update from the commuter who was close to the door. As the commuter gave his version with a bias towards the collegian, the grandfather of the toddlers raised an objection. The conductor simply cut the man short and asked whether the same question with an uncle would have had a different meaning. The substance he surmised was that the collegian had expressed concern for his safety and he should sagaciously have accepted the same. The man was not happy with this one sided verdict and started blaming the entire generation which lacked values. The Lok Adalat presided by the conductor did not seem to have had the desired effect.
The final punches were yet to be delivered and the articulations of the pros and cons went on as though a jury was put in place to give their verdict. All along, people disembarked from the bus, some boarded the bus, some purchased tickets for their destinations. It was after a good four or five stops the grand (self appointed)jury was suspended and the conductor told the gladiators that there would be no apologies since the old are not expected to seek pardon from the young and as far as the senior person was concerned, there was no disrespect intended so he could cool himself down. He added as a good measure that if the differences still persisted he would ask the driver to head to the nearest police station where both could sort out the matter. The last word had the desired effect. Soon, at the next bus stop the younger fellow found a seat for the older one ( an adjusted seat). The older man said he had come out in a temper and sought the apology of the younger soul. The younger person who had demanded an apology a few bus stops earlier would have nothing of it. Soon, on insistence he passed on his backpack to the senior one to hold as a gesture of affection by the “Ajja” to his “Mamaga”(grandson).

BTS and IFS

Bangalore Transport Service in itself is a mini world which the denizens who possess two and four wheelers miss unknowingly in the name of saving time. This service has been a source of several articles which if any daily would care to compile would form a bestselling compendium by itself and may also have to be released in volumes. The regulars of this service as well as a few guests would readily vouch the fact that the service provides a rich diet for any cartoonist who would like to create multiple caricatures. For three decades I have been a regular in the service and can sample out a few to entice many folks to leave their prized vehicles behind.
Any four wheeler today boasts of a stereo set which enables the passengers to tune into the FM stations, track the traffic jams, enliven themselves as they contribute to the chaos around. Even in those good old days many of the enterprising crew of the BTS had installed stereo sets which would blare the choice hit music of the season. Young boys in the bus would swing to the music despite the constraint of space and the load of their backpacks. Collegians would resort to foot tapping which was an art by itself. There would be hardly any space but the tapping of the foot should be as deft to land at the vacant space or the toes of another collegian. These practices of art led to some elderly persons rebuking the youngsters in chaste Kannada which was popularly referred to in our circles as Sanskrit. The conductors were veritable trapeze artistes who could swing across the crowded bus with their moneybags intact unlike many of their counterparts in the other cities. They also were masters in crowd control, excellent diplomats and knew when to blow hot or cold. Their mastery in languages made us wonder why much was being made out of the mastery of languages of the then premier Narasimha Rao. They would also remember the requests in various tones, tenors and vernaculars to be told of the stop to be alighted at.
This actually brings to fore an experience hard to forget. It was one of those box office hit days when the bus which had a seating capacity of about 40 was stacked with not less than 180 souls. The conductor baritoned the name of the stop and asked the persons to alight. Seeing no movement, he commanded, “Who was that 4 tickets person who wanted to alight here? Do you want to make your family walk a mile?” At this a man moved and pushed his way through to the door as the pushovers sermonized him on his negligence in not reacting at the first time. Another suggested, “If you feel that you are the emperor of all that you survey why do you not take an auto instead of holding a bus to ransom?” The third chimed in “ these guys come for sightseeing and we are in doldrums and my boss will talk about leaving early and reaching office in time. How do I factor these souls in my timing scheme?” Having successfully alighted the man moved towards the front door which was the entry and exit point for the womenfolk. He started saying “I am Appanna, green saree, blue saree get down.” The persons in the bus vented their exasperation. The conductor told the man to call them by name. The poor soul responded, “How can I take the name of our household women in public?” A census of all blue and green saree was conducted with relationship to Appanna and finally two green sarees and one blue saree was successfully disembarked.
In the meantime the conductor fielded a number of pressing instructions which would put a Karan Thapar in shade. Some were insisting that the bus leave while others questioned the legitimacy of the conductor in allowing the single person to hold everyone to ransom. Others were asking him whether the bus was his proprietory one or whether the person concerned was related to him or had paid him more. But the man in charge of these affairs was undaunted. He smiled and replied “Just imagine if it were your sister or mother would you not want them to disembark at the right place” In the event of the IFS facing a shortage of skilled diplomats, it is my considered opinion that these valiant soldiers should be allowed to face the barrage of queries and we know that our foreign policy would be safe in their hands. After all this, the man would just curl his lips and give out the whistle ( which is now far and few) as a signal which the driver would obediently pick up to rev the engines alive again.

SAMARITAN SEARCH

Bangalore was famous for its misty mornings in the seventies and eighties. I had just shifted from a nearby school located in Malleswaram to another in the heart of the city for my high school. Travel by the BTS (as it was then known as Bangalore Transport Service) was inevitable. We used to look wishfully at the auto stand located outside our home and move towards the terminus. The terminus was also the terminal point of the journey of life since it was located outside the crematorium popularly known as Harischandra Ghat. The bus number 85 used to take us to the Majestic bus stand. However, we used to cross the road for the route number 84 which would take us straight to the Corporation bus stop since it would move up to City Market. This bus would embark on its journey by moving ahead and taking a U turn to proceed towards Malleswaram Circle and move towards Vidhana Soudha which would also serve as an optional stop to disembark to enable us to savour the green glory of the Cubbon Park.
The red coloured buses were few and far. We used to have the timings of the buses ready and it was a normal feature for dailies to publish the schedules at the beginning of the year or when there was a reshuffle of the routes. The buses were largely of the TATA brand. We were such loyalists of this brand that there used to be animated discussions on the demerits of the Ashok Leyland buses which were being introduced. It is irony that life has come full circle with the Nano cars grabbing headlines. Another favourite past time was to identify the licence number of the bus by its looks or its honk. We prided in announcing 1293 has arrived instead of using just 84. No wonder we are aghast to see the GenX actually doing the reverse by shortening names and even in route numbers they would choose 4 instead of even saying 84.
1293 was an exception in the Ashok Leyland league and had a headgear. The reason was that the last seat had a special window which would slide either way. Persons used to Volvos and other buses would never understand the pleasure of identifying a window seat in the bus where in the both panes would slide both ways. Adults in those days itself used to consider the school boys as looneys to make a mad rush for the last seat while the conductor was asking them to move in. The latecomers among students had a special privilege even in those days. As a special tribute to the brilliance of one of the back benchers George Washington, the drivers would accept our school bags through their window and then allow us entry from this green room door for a seat on the engine or the sill in the front. All these noble souls may have retired from service but this thanksgiving note would fill their coffers of best wishes well.
It was one of these eventful days that I had managed to beat my rivals to the prized seat at the unique window on the last seat. The others were apparently miffed and chose to boycott the last seats. A middle aged man who wore a mush and beard sat beside me. He engaged me in light talk and I cautiously responded. I was unsure of the attitudes of strangers. He then steered the conversation towards his schooldays which brought some comfort. By the time the bus veered to a halt next to Vidhana Soudha (which was not a fortress then), he had won my confidence. Then we alighted together and walked through the sylvan surroundings of the Cubbon Park. A path next to the Attara Kacheri upto the fork where one led to the tennis courts and the other towards the road towards the Kanteerva Stadium was the end point of our walk. This soon became a daily habit where we would share a lot of good times. The Samaritan must be somewhere in Bangalore and my subsequent quest to trace this soul has been in vain.

CHILDHOOD TERROR

Terror struck Mumbai after striking Jaipur, Delhi, Hyderabad, Bangalore and scores of places in north east and Jammu and Kashmir. In all these instances the definition of terror would be the mortal fear of the death dance in these places. Adults and children alike faced this mortal fear. Few individuals displayed courage, conviction and presence of mind in these situations. They remained unsung heroes. The heroism always embraces the person who embraces death.

Is terror a new phenomenon? For me the answer is a big “NO”. Let me elaborate on the issue. Through the seventies of the last century and the early eighties, I was a mute witness to terror or should I say a mute victim of terror. We resided in a house on the first floor which consisted of a hall, room, kitchen, bath and toilet. A similar house was on the ground floor. The staircase to our house as well as the forecourt of the ground floor was accessed by a common door at the end of a common passage leading from the street.

The ground floor was inhabited by a young couple with their only son and three daughters. The son was an epitome of the saying “boys will be boys”. His exploits could form a novel by itself. Some of the most important heroics of his boyhood were passing under a moving truck a la the movie icon Rajkumar of Kannada theatre, ripping his eye and going to the doctor valiantly holding it to be stitched into place. Another incident which remains etched in my mind is him being locked in the bathroom of their house as a punishment. The enterprising lad managed to pile some items to climb up and squeeze himself out of the ventilator much to the dismay of his corporal mother.

Apparently at her wits end the unforgettable words “Anna barli madisthini” would be uttered. Loosely translated it meant Let father come I will get things sorted out. The father was working in a factory and would return a tired man. Even as he entered he would be given a version of the exploits of his son during the day. The man would immediately caution his son in typical Mahabharat style where a warrior puts his adversary on alert with the famous “Sawadhan”. The only difference in this case was the caution bugle was sounded with the Kannada version ‘Hushar’. No sooner was this uttered, the common access door would be sealed to shut out the escape route for the valiant son. Then the blows would be rained amidst cries from neighbours for sanity to prevail. The boy would be thrashed mercilessly. As children we would be terrified of this entire theatrics even though it was a routine event.

The entire thing would be played out without any media glare. There were no big fights or face the nations. Unfortunately, this boy did not grow up into a jawan or a policeman as terror struck him day after day. Lest he would have proved to be an excellent commando who would fearlessly combat any foe with or without weapons. There may be many such unsung heroes too. The need of the society is now to identify such heroes at a tender age and groom them. Today, this young man is a victim of terror who also needs help.

SAGA OF A FAMILY HEIRLOOM

The rains that brought into fore the D/L formula in the last couple of matches against England evoked memories far nearer to home. The scene was that I was to leave to Belgaum for joining on a new assignment. My grandmother who was in town was more worried about the date of leaving since as per her calendar the preceding day was not the auspicious day to leave. My mother was worried about the various goodies that were to travel with me to ensure that I did not miss home. At this point of time, a noble soul, reminded her that Belgaum was a place where torrential rains were the order of the day during the monsoon. Talk of gum boots and raincoats tumbled from everywhere as I was puzzling as to how I would lug the entire luggage. An ancient raincoat which had weathered several storms was pulled out from the attic, dusted and washed. The raincoat was a khaki raincoat of yore and legend had it that it was gifted by my grandfather to my father when he was in his teens. So no question of saying negatives to the family heirloom. This was packed on the top of the briefcase with a nylon rope which was to be used as a clothesline at my destination (Oh! the care they took to see that I would definitely wash myself and my clothes would make one thing that I would have never allowed water to touch me or my clothes but for these gorgeous reminders). Belgaum had its own invitations and after the initial unpacking I had totally put the raincoat in a corner of the cupboard and forgotten about it.

The monsoon set in and on the first day I was held up in the office for over two hours watching pails of water lashing down from the skies. I knew that I would be soaked and waited for it to subside. The next day, very meaningfully, I pulled out the heirloom and lugged the same to the office. The khaki coat which went upto the knees was a heavy duty one unlike the light plastic designer raincoats that children and adults wear now. Colleagues glanced at it quesstioningly. My boss enquired about the age and when I revealed the saga, he revelled in laughter and suggested he would organise festivities for its forthcoming golden jubilee. I soaked myself in all the attention till the rains commenced lashing the city towards the evening. At the stroke of 5:30 p.m., I bid goodbye to all as all of them looked at me. Cloaked in the heirloom, I walked into the rain. Three buildings away stood the lodge and it was a wet raincoat covering drenched person who reached the lodge to the bemusement of the lodgemates. That was the last day I bedecked myself in this powerful robe which weighed me down literally.

Love after all knows no bounds and so does the family heirloom. None at home could be convinced of the futility of donning this robe.

CHOWKIDAR AND ABDUL KALAM

We have given India the moon stated a beaming ISRO Chairman while the former President Abdul Kalam envisioned the ISRO realising the dreams of several children to be astronauts who wish to voyage to moon and Mars besides the deeper space. The cheer on his face said it all and reminded one of the love he shared with children. May be Saint Nicholas (Santa Claus) and Chhaccha Nehru are the only others I could think of who could match this bonhomie with children. Well I also belong to a family of children crazy persons and we closely observe every movement of a child as well as imbibe every word uttered by children. The former President's remarks on the aspirations and ambitions of children brought to fore many instances which I thought could be shared.

As a six year old, my cousin felt he was saddled with homework and schoolwork while I enjoyed life since I had just taken up a job. To add to his misery, when queried about the nature of job, I had remarked that I was to scale a mountain of chocolates and eat them once I reached the peak. His ambition was instantaneously to bid goodbye to school and swap portfolios. But a more amazing ambition he had was that he should travel to the sun. May be he is the only one after the mythical Hanuman who dreamt of such a possibility and would not the ignitor of minds be pleased to know about this dream?

A neighbour's kid had another ambition which was very much childlike. He wanted my sister to be his teacher who would give a lot of statement problems to other children and then take him out to play.

A third child had an interesting way of celebrating Deepavali wherein he would want to be slapped on his back instead of bursting crackers. He once travelled to Raipur and stated that it would be daylight there when it wouldbe night here. All from a four year old - Newton or Galileo in the making.

Many children have had dreams of being a teacher, an engine driver, a bus conductor, a flier, a pilot, a policeman etc but have you heard of a child which aspired to be a thief and all for a jar of pickles. Today this very child is a bright engineer pursuing studies in London.

The sone pe suhaga came during a journey from Delhi to Bangalore. A child boarded the train with his parents. He warmed up to me and reached out to my food much to the chagrin of his parents. As we chattered on, I asked him about his aspiration. Lo and behold he answered without batting an eyelid that he wanted to be a CHOWKIDAR. The reason - all children listen to him and his cane..

Truly the innocent world of children remains unmatched.

YAMADHOOTH

The days at high school was one of early rising with a hectic schedule. We were then residing close to the famous Harishchandra Ghat of Srirampuram. One had to be in the bus stop prior to 7:45 a.m to be able to escape the long merciless cane of Fr. D'Souza, our Vice Principal. The route no 84 would park right outside the compound of the burial ground. It would start with a U turn around a circle which now does not exist. The red bus which was fondly referred to as the "Yamadooth". The overloaded bus would wind through the Sampige Road, Shivananda Circle and past Vidhana Soudha. The Vikasa Soudha was not in place then and the road between the two Soudhas was open for traffic. We used to disembark at this stop and make our way through the sylvan surroundings of Cubbon Park to the then landmark of Tiffany's. It would then lead to the school premises.
The school had academics, sports, fun and frolic. The end of the school at around 3:30 p.m would signal groups trouping towards various directions. Our group used to take the route of the Tiffany’s , walk past Cubbon Park on the side of the Kanteerva Stadium to reach Hudson Circle. The Hudson Circle was a wonderful huge circle with lush green plants and grass. At this point we had to move towards the Kempegowda Road for which we would reach Nrupathunga Road and cross over from the Martha’s Hospital side to reach the bus stop. Both these roads were then two ways. A median separated the Kempegowda Road. Crossing this road in a group was a merry affair.
On one of these occasions, I was a wee bit late since I had visited the City Central Library close to the Airlines Hotel and had got separated from my group. I had been mentally dealing with the issue of which of the four novels I had picked up was to be read first. Absorbed in these thoughts, I had reached the Kempegowda Road almost mechanically. I scampered across the first half to the median and was looking for a wee bit of space to cross the remaining part. A hand suddenly clasped mine and dragged me to the middle of the remaining half. The Yamadooths in bright red colour which were racing in our direction came to a grinding halt. With a petrified look, I had managed to glance at the person who had placed me in this situation. Nothing but the spectre of death had loomed large. The Yamadooth had been merciful and spared me at the first brush I had with him. The mentally challenged person who was responsible for the act was escorted away as I sipped some water. Years later, another stroke of destiny has spared me from another such catastrophe. The only change was the bus was replaced by a black Scorpio and though I escaped by a whisker, a friend of mine who was with me suffered. The culprit this time was the Scorpio driver who jumped the signal.