All the Way from Dwarka (Getting to School Part 3)
Though they lasted less than a year and a half, the most memorable rides to and from school were when we shifted to Dwarka. Most memorable probably because they were the last of my school life. But definitely because they were the longest. Though covering the distance between school and home would only take 20 minutes by road, my journey was an elaborate one hour in the morning and an hour and a quarter in the afternoon. And unlike my short shuttle between the Munirka house and school, I enjoyed every minute of it.
After a daily morning battle of getting ourselves ready, my sister and I left home at 6.15 and walked to the main road crossing to reach our bus stop. During winters, it would still be pitch black when we left home. Pappa would accompany us and wait with us till the bus arrived. The arrival time of the bus was very erratic. Priyam, a friend and batch mate was the first one to board the bus. She was also the one, outside whose house the bus would be parked overnight. So every morning she'd have to wake the driver and conductor and get the ferry started.
Ours was one of the first few stops. So we had the luxury of having a relatively empty and airy bus for some time during the hot months. But the winters would have us wishing for the other children to board soon and make the inside of the cold bus warmer. The discomfort of fitting ourselves onto the narrow seats when we were bundled up in layers of thick clothing, was mitigated by the snug feeling which afforded the best sleep one could get sitting upright, without the danger of falling.
After a daily morning battle of getting ourselves ready, my sister and I left home at 6.15 and walked to the main road crossing to reach our bus stop. During winters, it would still be pitch black when we left home. Pappa would accompany us and wait with us till the bus arrived. The arrival time of the bus was very erratic. Priyam, a friend and batch mate was the first one to board the bus. She was also the one, outside whose house the bus would be parked overnight. So every morning she'd have to wake the driver and conductor and get the ferry started.
Ours was one of the first few stops. So we had the luxury of having a relatively empty and airy bus for some time during the hot months. But the winters would have us wishing for the other children to board soon and make the inside of the cold bus warmer. The discomfort of fitting ourselves onto the narrow seats when we were bundled up in layers of thick clothing, was mitigated by the snug feeling which afforded the best sleep one could get sitting upright, without the danger of falling.
The walk to the bus stop from home was a treacherous one in the winters. The fog was such a thick blanket that, from your eye-level, you couldn't possibly ascertain what you stepped on. This became a phobia especially in the months soon after we shifted to Dwarka. There had been a suicide committed by jumping from the 7th floor of our building, on a night in early December. The body hadn't been discovered until it was clear daylight, because the fog prevented the early risers from seeing death from their balconies.
On those cold mornings at the bus stop, we would stand with our eyes veered to the right. All we could make out in the dark and the fog were the changing colours of the traffic light. Whenever a pair of head lights materialised, all the waiting ones would say to each other "this is not ours" and grin. And sure enough, a truck, or another school bus would pass us by, or turn right and disappear. When, after a wait that extended long beyond the stipulated 6.20, a solitary high light struggled to glow dim-wittedly, we would say, "aa gayi humari kaanni bus." (here comes our one-eyed bus)
On those cold mornings at the bus stop, we would stand with our eyes veered to the right. All we could make out in the dark and the fog were the changing colours of the traffic light. Whenever a pair of head lights materialised, all the waiting ones would say to each other "this is not ours" and grin. And sure enough, a truck, or another school bus would pass us by, or turn right and disappear. When, after a wait that extended long beyond the stipulated 6.20, a solitary high light struggled to glow dim-wittedly, we would say, "aa gayi humari kaanni bus." (here comes our one-eyed bus)
On the journey back home, my sister and I were again one of the last ones to leave the bus. At Dwarka Sector 1, the first stop on the route back home, many of my friends would get down and take a rickshaw home, ditching the long winded bus route, to save time. I don't know what they did with all that saved time, but I never took that route. I enjoyed the bus rides home. The initial scurry in the bus lines would be aimed at getting to the last window seat, claiming for the journey, until you wished to give it up.
There would always be takers for this seat at any given point of the journey. I have often had occasion to occupy this seat. Not only did it give me a single head-turn view of all my friends and their activities and talks,but also an excellent view of the road, which saw many exotic cars ply on it at that time of the day: cars in colours which I have never spotted anywhere else. This car spotting helped me practise my car logos, in the little knowledge of which I took great pride.
There would always be takers for this seat at any given point of the journey. I have often had occasion to occupy this seat. Not only did it give me a single head-turn view of all my friends and their activities and talks,but also an excellent view of the road, which saw many exotic cars ply on it at that time of the day: cars in colours which I have never spotted anywhere else. This car spotting helped me practise my car logos, in the little knowledge of which I took great pride.
Moving to Dwarka and these bus journeys were the beginning of my wanderings with friends after class hours, mostly to eat - a habit that continues to date. On the way to my stop, lay the sectors 6 and 10 markets, two of the markets with most business in Dwarka at that time. We would always look longingly at the tiny restaurants and the new Giani's shop that promised high class ice-creams at pocket-burning rates.
We could never plan for such a trip to the markets. It had to be impromptu, entirely dependent on one particular external factor: having no teachers on the bus by that point of the journey. This could only happen if the teachers with stops at the later part of the journey needed to get home early, and so got off at sector 1 to take a rickshaw. We ditched our respective bus stops on the few opportune times that this happened, coinciding with the 5 or 6 of us having enough money - to call home and tell we'll be late, to eat, and to get rickshaws back home. Before embarking on those few stolen moments of juvenile bravado, we would tell the conductor and driver Bhaiya that we had permission from our parents, not that they cared in the least.
We could never plan for such a trip to the markets. It had to be impromptu, entirely dependent on one particular external factor: having no teachers on the bus by that point of the journey. This could only happen if the teachers with stops at the later part of the journey needed to get home early, and so got off at sector 1 to take a rickshaw. We ditched our respective bus stops on the few opportune times that this happened, coinciding with the 5 or 6 of us having enough money - to call home and tell we'll be late, to eat, and to get rickshaws back home. Before embarking on those few stolen moments of juvenile bravado, we would tell the conductor and driver Bhaiya that we had permission from our parents, not that they cared in the least.
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