As told by - The notebook
Way back in the 1960’s, a little matter of the distance between the school and the residence of the student hadn’t arisen and every parent was free to choose a school according to their convenience or desire or whatever suited their whim and fancy. Purja’s school, about thirty kilometers from his home, was chosen due to lack of options in a small industrial town where he resided. It took him roughly one and a half hour of leisurely ride in a rickety old orange school bus to reach his alma mater every morning, a time normally well spent doing the homework, a task his packed busy schedule during evening hours at home doing thousands of other dubiously important things, kept him from accomplishing. This also saved him from embarrassing punishments, a habit his teacher was badly afflicted with. Outlandish handwriting, an irritating by product of the bus homework was the only sore point. There was a silver lining though. The ride back home was a pure pleasure.
“Let me paint a visual picture for you. The orange bus was unique as it was a cross between a bus and a truck and had a bad case of identity crises along with the riders who were too embarrassed to be seen in it. Though having a physique of a truck, it was made to look like a bus with four wooden planks, two on either side with two in the middle, running lengthwise, for seating who ever was gullible enough or the students who had no choice. The windows had iron bars like a prison van and served the purpose of stopping students from bailing out of a crawling bus. These permanently air conditioned windows had roll down plastic blinds as an inadequate protection if it rained but sadly blocked the light and air totally. Mostly students chose getting wet than be suffocated. The lulling pace of the bus, especially on hot summer afternoons along with a tiring day at school would invariably result in an immediate infectious sleep syndrome in most of the young occupants of the planks. We saw a sea of nodding sleepy heads moving randomly from side to side with few falling off the seat along with the attached body. But our Purja stayed alert for a long time.
“How come? He was young and over active, as we all know. It would have been difficult to stay awake under such circumstances.” The cup never could tolerate discrepancies in the narratives.
“Purja had a mission. He would run ahead of his bus mates at the end of the school so that he could acquire the window seat exactly behind the driver. This was a well thought of move. By doing so, he had more leg space and also could learn driving for free by just watching the driver drive the bus. He watched him change gears, maneuver, the steering wheel, use the clutch etc. thereby imbibed the theoretical driving knowledge almost on the driver’s seat. Well almost, since he practically spilled over the driver’s back, asking thousands of questions, memorizing the trees, buildings and thousand other details of the route for any emergencies. One never knew when the driver might have a heart attack or something like that, he thought. He would be prepared then. He knew the road signs, the turnings and the cars parked in the drive- way of all the houses, on his daily route. But, by and by the sleep infection, the stealthy invader, would spread to him, rendering him incapable of wakefulness, to the great relief of, by now ‘Pakka Hua’ driver. The fallout of the situation, hence- he knew how to start the bus, also how to turn it left or right but for a very long time had no clue about how to stop it. Every afternoon, the watchman carried sleeping Purja from the bus to his room from his favorite window seat.”
Way back in the 1960’s, a little matter of the distance between the school and the residence of the student hadn’t arisen and every parent was free to choose a school according to their convenience or desire or whatever suited their whim and fancy. Purja’s school, about thirty kilometers from his home, was chosen due to lack of options in a small industrial town where he resided. It took him roughly one and a half hour of leisurely ride in a rickety old orange school bus to reach his alma mater every morning, a time normally well spent doing the homework, a task his packed busy schedule during evening hours at home doing thousands of other dubiously important things, kept him from accomplishing. This also saved him from embarrassing punishments, a habit his teacher was badly afflicted with. Outlandish handwriting, an irritating by product of the bus homework was the only sore point. There was a silver lining though. The ride back home was a pure pleasure.
“Let me paint a visual picture for you. The orange bus was unique as it was a cross between a bus and a truck and had a bad case of identity crises along with the riders who were too embarrassed to be seen in it. Though having a physique of a truck, it was made to look like a bus with four wooden planks, two on either side with two in the middle, running lengthwise, for seating who ever was gullible enough or the students who had no choice. The windows had iron bars like a prison van and served the purpose of stopping students from bailing out of a crawling bus. These permanently air conditioned windows had roll down plastic blinds as an inadequate protection if it rained but sadly blocked the light and air totally. Mostly students chose getting wet than be suffocated. The lulling pace of the bus, especially on hot summer afternoons along with a tiring day at school would invariably result in an immediate infectious sleep syndrome in most of the young occupants of the planks. We saw a sea of nodding sleepy heads moving randomly from side to side with few falling off the seat along with the attached body. But our Purja stayed alert for a long time.
“How come? He was young and over active, as we all know. It would have been difficult to stay awake under such circumstances.” The cup never could tolerate discrepancies in the narratives.
“Purja had a mission. He would run ahead of his bus mates at the end of the school so that he could acquire the window seat exactly behind the driver. This was a well thought of move. By doing so, he had more leg space and also could learn driving for free by just watching the driver drive the bus. He watched him change gears, maneuver, the steering wheel, use the clutch etc. thereby imbibed the theoretical driving knowledge almost on the driver’s seat. Well almost, since he practically spilled over the driver’s back, asking thousands of questions, memorizing the trees, buildings and thousand other details of the route for any emergencies. One never knew when the driver might have a heart attack or something like that, he thought. He would be prepared then. He knew the road signs, the turnings and the cars parked in the drive- way of all the houses, on his daily route. But, by and by the sleep infection, the stealthy invader, would spread to him, rendering him incapable of wakefulness, to the great relief of, by now ‘Pakka Hua’ driver. The fallout of the situation, hence- he knew how to start the bus, also how to turn it left or right but for a very long time had no clue about how to stop it. Every afternoon, the watchman carried sleeping Purja from the bus to his room from his favorite window seat.”
In Asansol we had a similar van we went to schhol in, only thing it was made up of a iron framework which had canvas on top and the canvas on rainy days would collect pools of water. Naughty boys would use sticks to push up these pools from inside the bus/truck to make the water pour down a hole strategically placed above a girl's head. It was an interesting pastime.
ReplyDeleteWhen the truck was not well we went in an ambulance, the driver had to make 2 trips and if the ambulance was busy we went in a jeep. The driver a kindly man who liked his drink- Hussain chacha had no option but to allow us to put a foot in the overpacked jeep, hold the iron framework and hang out in the cool breeze. The nuns at our school were quite appalled and were more worried about our skirts flying up, but we had a good time picking out cauliflowers from vegetable sellers baskets, which they would be carrying on their heads. With us standing just inside the jeep, the height was just right for us to easily pick them up from the top and Hussain chacha would aid us by steering near them and then speeding away. Needless to say the cauliflower was Hussain chacha's to keep, none of us could have taken it home, anyway.
I am sure you all swiped sugarcanes too. The orange bus also rattled its own music that was quite difficult to bear after a while. But, yes the memories are priceless.
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