Dharamsala 2: Road-trip. Movie script for sale.
I do not like Hollywood comedies about unlucky fellows: as if threading beads the scriptwriter comes up with one accident after another to make us unnecessarily pity the hero (heroine) who is put through such a hassle. I remember the last one – “Just my luck” (2006): the girl comes home to find out that her flat is flooded and invaded by the rescuers; a smiling man gives her a small carton box with some of her saved belongings and the bottom of the box drops when she receives it; later when sheltering at her friend’s, she looks in a mirror and finds a pimple, she is trying to squeeze it out and she breaks the mirror; hair dryer sucks in her hair, the plug goes off, the short circuit destroys the bathroom; and the next day the girl shows up at a date with a band on her eye. All because of the weird imagination of the scriptwriter who is desperately trying to impress us!
Yet, even in real life now and then you feel THE SCRIPTWRITER gets too creative.
The night before the trip to Dharamsala a cheerful a cappella of the ringtone I assigned to Kate’s number on my phone announced that the girl had got something to tell me. My friend has recently been desperate to finish some work in order to travel light-hearted – she planned to see her friend in Mumbai on the long weekend. Yet, it so happened so that once the trip had been decided upon Kate got to know that her friend was emergently hospitalized. Moreover, for a few days in a row Kate had been struggling with the computers at CSR: none of them wanted to save pages of her work that she had to retype every single day. The night Kate thought she would say bye to her miseries and just jump in the train to Mumbai she called me to tell that all the trains to Mumbai got cancelled due to the flood in Gujrat and if in the morning of the day after she did not have better luck, she would join us for Dharamsala. “If you are not scared of my luck,” she shouted with laugher. We were not, so she came along.
Next day we both left the office a bit earlier to make it to the bus station on time. Yet, all the last-minute preparations, extra packing and bye-bye to the colleagues delayed us by some half and hour. We rushed to the motorway to get an auto. Needless to say, it took a while to realize we would not get one on “good price” and therefore should agree on the approximation of the same. A Sikh driver was picked among the rest for no reason. Actually, by a huge mistake as it appeared very soon. He already turned to the gas station when both Kate and me yielded, “No gas!” The driver got taken aback by our determination and immediately got back on the highway. It cost us another wrong turn and a lasting debate about the shortest way to get to CP to actually get on the right track. Yet, even following the right track didn’t bring satisfaction as soon we stopped: a tyre got flat and we got frustrated. While Kate was clarifying with the driver how long it would take to change the tyre, I was waiving down in the desperation that was sensed by the auto-walas who stopped and quoted sky-high prices for a very short ride. Our Sikh driver was very efficient and the tyre got fixed surprisingly quickly to relieve our strained-to-the-limit nerves.
Very soon we unloaded at the Central Secretariat metro station to take an underground shortcut instead of making it through the congested Central Delhi and hectic Old City. Security system in Delhi metro is a small-scale version of that at an airport: when entering a station you go through the security gate and then big bags get checked. However, before I used to pass all the cordons without even stopping, yet this time I rather heedlessly forgot about the recent terror threats in London and stringent security measures all over. Both Kate and me had really huge backpacks. Checking those would take time that we did not practically had being so delayed by our auto-adventures. I already passed a policeman when I get to hear a loud and hard, “Mam”. Kate was behind; I did not want to look back and hoped she would pass through without a hassle. I rushed to the turnstile and already passed it when another policeman blocked my way. “Please, show your bag”. I saw Kate behind, stopped by a policeman too and opening her backpack. She was equality irritated, but way more polite than me. Indignant and red-hot, I blurted out “I do not have time, I am missing my train”. Yet, the matter looked pretty hopeless. The policeman repeated hard that he intended to inspect my bag. To ultimately convince me in the seriousness of the intentions, a Sikh guard with a rifle came up pointing his weapon at me. Humiliated and ultimately helpless, annoyed and angry, feeling tiny-little and deprived of any rights, I replied they could open my backpack and see for themselves, but I would not take it off from my shoulders… Providing the backpack was pretty tall they opened it and felt it only on the top. And that annoyed me even more. Why all this lip-service to the greater security, why to rattle the sabre in front of taken aback civilians if you do not even intend or do not have sufficient means to carry out a proper check??!! Soon we cached a train to ISBT: modern ambiance and a/c comfort of the metro cooled us down, giving a small break between our miseries.
Once at ISBT, a moment of truth came: by running between three ticket counters, two busses departing to Dharamsala and five of them on the platforms nearby trying to identify the one we would take, assaulting of the ticket counter for the tickets - we eventually got to meet all the trainees who happened to be coming to Dharamsala for that long weekend... Uf!!! In the bus… Quite troubled by my rebellious mind I shouted to Kate, “Let’s take the seats behind the driver”. I had an idea that actually they wrote numbers of the seats on the tickets, but I suggested we tried our chances. Best seats in the bus where you can stretch your legs were worth the try. The rest of our sojourners appeared to be more respectful to the rules and took the seats as assigned at the ticket counter.
When the bus got almost full two young men came up to us. One of them asked with a challenge:
“What are your seats’ numbers? Show me your tickets!”
“Show me yours! Are you a conductor?”
“These are not your seats!”
“Are these yours?”
“Yes, they are ours. We’ll talk to conductor”
And he showed me a 500-ruppies bill with “5” and “6” written on it. Astonished by the very concept, I exclaimed, “Is that how you get your seats?!” Immediately I felt like shrinking so that less of me had to face this unfair world. “This is a bribe!”, I loudly whispered to Kate. If they were determined to execute their plan then Kate and me would get pretty much screwed with fitting in the luggage now comfortably placed under our feet in the already packed space at the back of the bus. I suggested we stayed where we were and waited till the conductor came and then if the men dared to get the seats in the planned way we would kick up a fuss. I childishly put my chin on Kate’s shoulder, knitted my eye-brows, threw out my lower lip and sad almost crying, “I wanna go home”… Kate raised her eye-brows, “You want to stay in Delhi?” I came to my senses. Of course not… But, how miserable it is to know that you are alone in your misery, you are there to stand for yourself… Taking the seats different from assigned is not such an uncommon practice and not a cheeky prank by any means. In India you learn to make yourself comfortable and increase your utility if a chance comes. Because if you do not someone else would use the chance at your expense – and seat on your knees, step on your foot, get your auto, take your seat in the bus, take your turn in the queue…
The conductor came up soon and shook my shoulder with undue familiarity.
“Show me your tickets”
I did.
“Go and take your seats”
“I will when the one who has the tickets for this ones shows up. In that case we’ll surely vacate the seats”
He took our tickets and went to the back to check the rest of our batch. Kate and me were left to tremble. In a few minutes he got back, gave me the tickets and left. Me and Kate exchanged glances and smiled.. Worked out!...
The fresh breeze mixed with the Delhi dirt had a definite calming effect, but proved misleading. After a few hours of the discussion on international terrorism we had with Kate the bus stopped in some urban yet without much signs of human presence area. A flat tyre accident repated - this time at the larger scale. Gradually most of the passengers flew off the bus. We were effectively left wondering as for what exactly had happened and how long it would take to repair it. Eight of us were standing on the road, looking at the funky-painted trucks slowing down and looking at us and at the bus and passing by. After three hours (three hours!) of such a routine the bus started off. We loaded, get into our seats and soon fell asleep.
As it often happens during overnight bus journeys I was waking up now and then and at one of those awakenings I realized we stopped again. The picture that I saw out of the window deserved being painted with oil on a huge canvas and exhibited in the National Museum. About 30-40 policemen in sand-colored uniform, with read and black turbans (a! we are in Punjab) with wooden sticks and wattled shields were alertly roaming around the area lightened by the headlight of the vehicles. The traffic got blocked from both sides and the sojourner sitting on my left-hand side commented that someone threw stones on a bus. We could see the bus with the broken front window on the roadside. The situation of alertness and confusion did not last long – our bus started off and for ten minutes we were passing by numerous trucks, busses, cars and other vehicles in the reverse row until we saw a turned upside down burnt frame of a jeep on the middle of the road. Silent mode and open mouths…
The morning was long as the bus got delayed by some two hours. We were driving on the hills. Some were trying to sleep while dangling from one side to another and others were freezing before every turn at the serpentine. We almost felt happy to have it all behind and be about to reach Dharamsala. 10 minutes away from the bus station steam started belching from the panel nearby the driver and light-green liquid started flooding the bus. The steam made it hardly possible to breath and see and we had to urgently evacuate our bags and ourselves from the disaster… Walking towards the bus station, indulging the silence an clearness of the air…we thought it was great we got so flat tire-security checks-uncertainty-and-disaster-proof and eventually made it… Irrespective... The end.
Yet, even in real life now and then you feel THE SCRIPTWRITER gets too creative.
The night before the trip to Dharamsala a cheerful a cappella of the ringtone I assigned to Kate’s number on my phone announced that the girl had got something to tell me. My friend has recently been desperate to finish some work in order to travel light-hearted – she planned to see her friend in Mumbai on the long weekend. Yet, it so happened so that once the trip had been decided upon Kate got to know that her friend was emergently hospitalized. Moreover, for a few days in a row Kate had been struggling with the computers at CSR: none of them wanted to save pages of her work that she had to retype every single day. The night Kate thought she would say bye to her miseries and just jump in the train to Mumbai she called me to tell that all the trains to Mumbai got cancelled due to the flood in Gujrat and if in the morning of the day after she did not have better luck, she would join us for Dharamsala. “If you are not scared of my luck,” she shouted with laugher. We were not, so she came along.
Next day we both left the office a bit earlier to make it to the bus station on time. Yet, all the last-minute preparations, extra packing and bye-bye to the colleagues delayed us by some half and hour. We rushed to the motorway to get an auto. Needless to say, it took a while to realize we would not get one on “good price” and therefore should agree on the approximation of the same. A Sikh driver was picked among the rest for no reason. Actually, by a huge mistake as it appeared very soon. He already turned to the gas station when both Kate and me yielded, “No gas!” The driver got taken aback by our determination and immediately got back on the highway. It cost us another wrong turn and a lasting debate about the shortest way to get to CP to actually get on the right track. Yet, even following the right track didn’t bring satisfaction as soon we stopped: a tyre got flat and we got frustrated. While Kate was clarifying with the driver how long it would take to change the tyre, I was waiving down in the desperation that was sensed by the auto-walas who stopped and quoted sky-high prices for a very short ride. Our Sikh driver was very efficient and the tyre got fixed surprisingly quickly to relieve our strained-to-the-limit nerves.
Very soon we unloaded at the Central Secretariat metro station to take an underground shortcut instead of making it through the congested Central Delhi and hectic Old City. Security system in Delhi metro is a small-scale version of that at an airport: when entering a station you go through the security gate and then big bags get checked. However, before I used to pass all the cordons without even stopping, yet this time I rather heedlessly forgot about the recent terror threats in London and stringent security measures all over. Both Kate and me had really huge backpacks. Checking those would take time that we did not practically had being so delayed by our auto-adventures. I already passed a policeman when I get to hear a loud and hard, “Mam”. Kate was behind; I did not want to look back and hoped she would pass through without a hassle. I rushed to the turnstile and already passed it when another policeman blocked my way. “Please, show your bag”. I saw Kate behind, stopped by a policeman too and opening her backpack. She was equality irritated, but way more polite than me. Indignant and red-hot, I blurted out “I do not have time, I am missing my train”. Yet, the matter looked pretty hopeless. The policeman repeated hard that he intended to inspect my bag. To ultimately convince me in the seriousness of the intentions, a Sikh guard with a rifle came up pointing his weapon at me. Humiliated and ultimately helpless, annoyed and angry, feeling tiny-little and deprived of any rights, I replied they could open my backpack and see for themselves, but I would not take it off from my shoulders… Providing the backpack was pretty tall they opened it and felt it only on the top. And that annoyed me even more. Why all this lip-service to the greater security, why to rattle the sabre in front of taken aback civilians if you do not even intend or do not have sufficient means to carry out a proper check??!! Soon we cached a train to ISBT: modern ambiance and a/c comfort of the metro cooled us down, giving a small break between our miseries.
Once at ISBT, a moment of truth came: by running between three ticket counters, two busses departing to Dharamsala and five of them on the platforms nearby trying to identify the one we would take, assaulting of the ticket counter for the tickets - we eventually got to meet all the trainees who happened to be coming to Dharamsala for that long weekend... Uf!!! In the bus… Quite troubled by my rebellious mind I shouted to Kate, “Let’s take the seats behind the driver”. I had an idea that actually they wrote numbers of the seats on the tickets, but I suggested we tried our chances. Best seats in the bus where you can stretch your legs were worth the try. The rest of our sojourners appeared to be more respectful to the rules and took the seats as assigned at the ticket counter.
When the bus got almost full two young men came up to us. One of them asked with a challenge:
“What are your seats’ numbers? Show me your tickets!”
“Show me yours! Are you a conductor?”
“These are not your seats!”
“Are these yours?”
“Yes, they are ours. We’ll talk to conductor”
And he showed me a 500-ruppies bill with “5” and “6” written on it. Astonished by the very concept, I exclaimed, “Is that how you get your seats?!” Immediately I felt like shrinking so that less of me had to face this unfair world. “This is a bribe!”, I loudly whispered to Kate. If they were determined to execute their plan then Kate and me would get pretty much screwed with fitting in the luggage now comfortably placed under our feet in the already packed space at the back of the bus. I suggested we stayed where we were and waited till the conductor came and then if the men dared to get the seats in the planned way we would kick up a fuss. I childishly put my chin on Kate’s shoulder, knitted my eye-brows, threw out my lower lip and sad almost crying, “I wanna go home”… Kate raised her eye-brows, “You want to stay in Delhi?” I came to my senses. Of course not… But, how miserable it is to know that you are alone in your misery, you are there to stand for yourself… Taking the seats different from assigned is not such an uncommon practice and not a cheeky prank by any means. In India you learn to make yourself comfortable and increase your utility if a chance comes. Because if you do not someone else would use the chance at your expense – and seat on your knees, step on your foot, get your auto, take your seat in the bus, take your turn in the queue…
The conductor came up soon and shook my shoulder with undue familiarity.
“Show me your tickets”
I did.
“Go and take your seats”
“I will when the one who has the tickets for this ones shows up. In that case we’ll surely vacate the seats”
He took our tickets and went to the back to check the rest of our batch. Kate and me were left to tremble. In a few minutes he got back, gave me the tickets and left. Me and Kate exchanged glances and smiled.. Worked out!...
The fresh breeze mixed with the Delhi dirt had a definite calming effect, but proved misleading. After a few hours of the discussion on international terrorism we had with Kate the bus stopped in some urban yet without much signs of human presence area. A flat tyre accident repated - this time at the larger scale. Gradually most of the passengers flew off the bus. We were effectively left wondering as for what exactly had happened and how long it would take to repair it. Eight of us were standing on the road, looking at the funky-painted trucks slowing down and looking at us and at the bus and passing by. After three hours (three hours!) of such a routine the bus started off. We loaded, get into our seats and soon fell asleep.
As it often happens during overnight bus journeys I was waking up now and then and at one of those awakenings I realized we stopped again. The picture that I saw out of the window deserved being painted with oil on a huge canvas and exhibited in the National Museum. About 30-40 policemen in sand-colored uniform, with read and black turbans (a! we are in Punjab) with wooden sticks and wattled shields were alertly roaming around the area lightened by the headlight of the vehicles. The traffic got blocked from both sides and the sojourner sitting on my left-hand side commented that someone threw stones on a bus. We could see the bus with the broken front window on the roadside. The situation of alertness and confusion did not last long – our bus started off and for ten minutes we were passing by numerous trucks, busses, cars and other vehicles in the reverse row until we saw a turned upside down burnt frame of a jeep on the middle of the road. Silent mode and open mouths…
The morning was long as the bus got delayed by some two hours. We were driving on the hills. Some were trying to sleep while dangling from one side to another and others were freezing before every turn at the serpentine. We almost felt happy to have it all behind and be about to reach Dharamsala. 10 minutes away from the bus station steam started belching from the panel nearby the driver and light-green liquid started flooding the bus. The steam made it hardly possible to breath and see and we had to urgently evacuate our bags and ourselves from the disaster… Walking towards the bus station, indulging the silence an clearness of the air…we thought it was great we got so flat tire-security checks-uncertainty-and-disaster-proof and eventually made it… Irrespective... The end.
posted by Olga Tikhonova | 12:34 pm
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