There were more than a handful of schoolgirls on this bus. As schoolgirls anywhere in the world are prone to, they were all giggling happily and sharing secrets. All of them wore bright blue long skirts and colorful blouses. These blouses either sported bright floral patterns or were in shades of bright green, pink, yellow, purple, and orange.
The only other woman traveler on this bus, slightly plump and perhaps in her early thirties, sported a green-and-orange sari—the traditional wrap-around garment worn by women in India. Beautiful multicolored glass bangles jangled pleasantly on her wrists, and she wore some delicate white flowers around her hair-bun.
I looked quite drab in comparison. All I had on was gray cotton trousers and an equally drab gray t-shirt. But my digital wristwatch that sported a bright yellow plastic strap helped me from fading into the background altogether. It was also my lucky charm.
This wristwatch was a gift from a fellow traveler. We had braved a blizzard in the Himalayan region and made it safely to base camp. The watch was now worn out and battered; still I never traveled without it.
People watching is fun and it helped me to kill time. Suddenly the ditty that was still playing in my head died down. My brain was alert, my body tensed. I had just spotted the sign:Welcome to the Bandipur Forest Region.
I normally would have craned my neck to spot the chital (spotted deer) that frolicked close to the road. But the hair on the nape of my neck was now standing up. I could feel the goosebumps on my skin. Bandipur wasn’t just a paradise for wildlife enthusiasts. It was Veerappan land.
Veerappan was wanted in the southern states of India for killing more than one hundred people, including senior police and forest officials. Anyone who tried to come in the way of his flourishing business of smuggling sandalwood or poaching elephants was dealt with mercilessly. He had even abducted and killed a former minister and also kidnapped a famous movie star from his farmhouse on the outskirts of this forest region, only to release him later (the saying goes that the release was made only against a hefty ransom). The Bandipur forest region abounded in sandalwood trees and still teemed with herds of elephants. It was Veerappan’s favorite haunt.
I had seen his photographs in the local newspapers so many times I could recognize that handlebar mustache anywhere. He was very proud of his moustache and tended to it carefully. Newspapers reported that he waxed and groomed it almost daily. To him, it was a sign of his manliness. This together with his piercing black eyes made for a very fierce portrait. He lorded over this region. I was mad. Mad not to have checked out the route to Mysore. I had never even dreamed that this bus would take me through this dangerous area.
As an accountant, I have always been partial to statistics. I remembered Veerappan’s details vividly; it was almost like I was reading aloud from a newspaper. Ivory smuggled worth U.S. $2.6 million, sandalwood carted off around 10,000 tons worth a whopping U.S. $22 million. The price on Veerappan’s head, a cool U.S. $1 million plus!
I looked around the bus. The “polyester” man had stopped whistling and combing his mop of well-oiled hair. The farmers, who had sprawled comfortably on the seats and were scattered here and there, were no longer speaking across to each other in their local Kannada dialect.The two schoolgirls seated just ahead of me were peering outside the window wide-eyed.
It was unbelievable. I never could have imagined that this noisy bunch of fellow travelers could ever keep quiet, except perhaps when in deep slumber. Now, if even one of the delicate white flowers, which my fellow woman traveler adorned, had fallen off, we would have all heard it—loud and clear. It was eerie. Now I knew the meaning of pin-drop silence.
Our bus screeched to a sudden halt. The driver shot out some sharp commands. I did not understand a word of what he was saying. People were filing out quietly. I had to follow suit. All I knew was that it wasn’t a case of a measly tire puncture or engine failure. It was something much, much worse. The queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach told me so. I wish I knew what it was. Well, actually I had no wish to know what had happened.
For once, I dreamed of being in my cubicle, hunched over the laptop. Bored to death but safe and sound. But there I was, standing with others on the forest ground. If someone invented a pill to quash the travel bug, I knew I would be the first to queue up to be a human guinea pig.
A forest official began to scrutinize each and every face very closely. When it was my turn, the guy yelled at me, in Kannada, I presume. He tried again, in another language— perhaps it was Tamil. Several languages, all unknown to me, are widely spoken in South India. This official then just threw up his hands in a helpless gesture.
It was the “polyester” man who explained to me in a smattering of English that Veerappan had stirred some fresh trouble. Entry farther down in this area was forbidden, our bus would have to turn back to Bangalore.
Clutching my backpack tightly, as if it would bring me some solace, I climbed back into the bus. The “polyester” man did not clamber back, he remained behind to enjoy the fun, I suppose. Or perhaps to act as the interpreter for other poor souls like me. My only connection with the world had slipped away. The chatting began; the farmers were talking loudly, as were the bus driver and ticket collector. One of the schoolgirls began to sob.The sari-clad woman rushed to her aid and hugged her. I wish she had hugged me as well. I felt so alone, so aloof. It was like being stranded in a desert.
But I steeled myself. I wasn’t a school kid. I had traveled alone in other regions of India, regions considered inhospitable to a solo woman traveler. Surely I could brave this ride back to Bangalore. I thought of taking a quick nap. But, grabbing some shut-eye was just not possible. I was as wide-eyed and scared shitless as the school kids.
I knew I was shivering, but I tried to pretend that I was tuned in to my Walkman and was swaying to the music.
The bus made a U-turn.We were going back, the way we had come, back to Bangalore. The only hitch—we had forayed deep down into the forest area. It would be at least half an hour before we hit the main road and civilization. Not good, not good at all.
On the way back, the driver stopped, it seemed every few minutes, to pick up passersby, rural folk, who had no idea that they could not venture deeper down the road into the forested area.
Till now the bus had been largely empty. But now it was getting crowded. More and more people got in. People with jute sacks filled with grain, people carrying bundles of sugar cane, stacks of hay or firewood, and even piles of clothes. Perhaps this person with a huge bundle of clothes was a shop owner.
No one sat next to me. Perhaps it was my smelly socks, or the fright that was visible on my face. Or did they just want someone to talk to?
I realized I had been uncivil enough to dump my backpack on the seat next to mine. With a sigh, I moved it beneath the bus seat. Another stop and crowds of people shoved their way in.
And then it happened. Someone dropped himself heavily into the seat next to mine. I turned to look. It was a tall wiry man with a fierce handlebar mustache. I gaped open-mouthed. He wore the traditional dhoti (white cloth wrapped around his waist), an extremely tattered vest, and a loose overcoat of some kind. There was something hidden beneath his overcoat.
Beads of sweat appeared on my forehead and trickled down. I began to shudder. My heart was thudding so hard I thought it would jump out. I began to edge towards the window, wishing I could leap out of it. There was no doubt about it. This man was the one and only Veerappan.
What was Veerappan hiding beneath his overcoat? Elementary, my dear Watson, what could it be besides arms and ammunition. Perhaps it was a country-made pistol, a dagger? Or if nothing else, perhaps an extra-sharp sickle?
No, it looked like he was hiding a handmade grenade. Only a grenade would be much smaller. It was a country-made bomb. Yes, that was it, a bomb. What if it suddenly exploded? The heat was unbearable; didn’t country made bombs explode in the heat? Both he and I would instantly die. He would not even have to take the pains to kill me
.
To make matters worse, another ditty began to resound loudly in my head, only this time, it was my own creation— “Dead as a dodo, dead as a duck, as dead as you on a trundling bus.” What an unusual trip. My unique dance moves to begin with and now my own ditty!
The masses of people that had just got in with Veerappan blocked my view of the driver. Was the driver held at gunpoint? Where was the bus going? Once again, a deep hush seemed to descend.The woman traveler heaved herself up, it seemed to be as far away from me as possible, and disappeared ahead in the standing crowd. Others shot sly glances in my direction, or so it seemed. The pounding of my heart could not get any worse. My t-shirt was already soaked in sweat.
I wanted to call my mother. But each time I tried to dive down and pull out my backpack, where my mobile phone lay buried amidst clothes and books, sharp black eyes would follow me.
I didn’t want to be abducted; I didn’t want to be slashed with a knife, either. I began to believe in karma. I was just destined to die on a trundling bus.
I glanced at my wrist to check the time. Veerappan followed my gaze. Worse still, he continued to stare at my wrist, as the seconds and minutes went by. I was done for, he was going to grab me and slash my wrist. In fact, I had caught him glancing at my wrist even earlier. Perhaps that big ugly bulge was not a country bomb, it was a sharp dagger.
Veerappan suddenly reached into his overcoat. Now I would either be killed or taken hostage. I began to shiver even more violently than ever, my teeth chattered. I could not figure out what would be worse—having my wrists slashed or being his hostage. From Veerappan’s perspective, the only apparent city slicker on this bus would command a bigger ransom. So perhaps I would not be killed. The police authorities would not like to send a signal that even visitors, let alone, officials were being kidnapped and killed by Veerappan as they watched helplessly. Surely the state government would succeed in securing my release. Maybe I could escape. Would watching Tarzan help me survive, if ever I did escape? Could I swing on trees? Would I be a national hero, after having escaped Veerappan?
As I was thinking all this and much worse, Veerappan drew out a large crumpled paper packet—the bulge beneath his overcoat had disappeared. He shyly nudged me and offered me roasted peanuts. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
And why was he staring at me so hard, each time I had tried to dive for my backpack? During our trip, as he eventually pointed at my wristwatch and grinned a tobacco-stained, toothy smile, I understood. He had not seen anything like it before and he loved my watch.
Perhaps the fast-changing digits fascinated him, or perhaps yellow was his favorite color. When we finally made it back to the bus station at Bangalore, and I was not as dead as a dodo, even though dead tired, I gave him my watch. I wonder whether he still wears it.
Lubna Kably calls herself a wondering wanderer. Her adventures of traveling in India have appeared on www.bootsnall.com. Today she roams freely in the forests of Bandipur and other parts of India, in search of another misadventure. The real Veerappan was killed in a police encounter in 2004, after having evaded arrest for nearly twenty years.
LAURA KLINE
Bathtub Blues in the Land of the Rising Buns
Were they plumbers or perverts?
MY GOOD FRIEND BONNIE AND I HAD JUST MOVED into a new mansion in the outskirts of Tokyo. Sounds impressive, I know, but unfortunately, a mansion in Japan boils down to a plain old apartment building. No moats, bodyguards, or other fancy thrills. Just a modern two-bedroom slab of concrete towering over a noisy, chaotic street.
I was in my fifth year of post-graduate studies in Japan, and I’d moved to Tokyo to complete my final research. It was nearly summer, and after lugging heavy boxes up and down stairs all day, I was more than ready to soak my sticky body in our new o-furo. I pushed the button next to the bath and twenty minutes later, a piercing beep shot through the flat, announcing that the bath water was ready to embrace my weary limbs.
I ripped off my filthy clothes, tossed them into the laundry basket, then scrubbed my whole body raw with a small rectangular towel (the Japanese don’t use washcloths, but long towels, to make sure they cover every inch of grime lodged in all private nooks and crannies). Next, I rinsed myself off—outside the bathtub—as Japanese custom obliges.
Once I was absolutely certain I was squeaky clean, I lowered a toe into the…hideously cold water. Nani kore? (What the…?) I howled. Bath water in Japan tends to run uncomfortably hot, even scalding. I’d set the temperature to a moderate 42 degrees Centigrade, but the tub was as chilly as an Alaskan lake. That evening, I was no happy salmon, that’s for sure.
It was too late to call the concierge, so I lay out my futon and pouted. I made a mental note to get our bath fixed the next day. What an embarrassing experience that would turn out to be!
“Konnichi wa,” the concierge greeted me, nervously bobbing his shiny head up and down. He seemed just as scared to talk to me as most other Japanese men. Bonnie and I happened to be the only foreigners in the building, according to our landlord, and from the way this guy was acting, I was certain there hadn’t been any before us.
“Konnichi wa,” I replied, then carefully explained our o-furo problem.
“Mondai nai” he answered, no problem. “A maintenance man will be by this afternoon,” he promised me, in Japanese. “Service in Japan sure is something!” I thought, relieved to have the situation under control so quickly. I wandered back to the apartment, to begin writing the first draft of my doctoral dissertation, due at the end of the month.
A few hours later, the doorbell chimed. A tall, beige-uniformed man stood in my doorway, yet when he saw me, he took a step back, then flushed like a steamy crab. He bowed profusely as I ushered him into our genkan, or entrance hall, where he removed his shoes, as is customary in Japan. Then I led him to our disobedient o-furo.
He whipped out a miniature digital camera and started flashing—mostly aiming at our bathtub and the pipes leading to its water heater. He said he’d need a few more minutes, to make sure he got everything.
As the bathroom was so tiny, the two of us could hardly fit inside, so I left him to take pictures and do whatever else he needed to repair the tub.
About ten minutes later, the flashing noises subsided, so I returned and asked him: “Is everything all right?”
“All’s under control” he replied as he rushed out the door. “I’ll be back later,” he shot at me as he rammed his feet into his shoes and took off down the stairs.
I didn’t expect the doorbell to chime again ten minutes later. But sure enough, it did and my tall friend came back with a short, skinny man in the same beige uniform. The skinny man bowed deeply to me as well, then they both removed their shoes and slid in their immaculate white socks towards the o-furo.
I left them alone and fifteen minutes later, I returned to find out how the repairs were coming. “Oh, no repairs yet. We need to check the measurements and take more pictures,” the first man replied, pulling out his camera again. He snapped away at the walls, the ceiling, the laundry basket, etc.
“How many pictures do you need to fix a bathtub?” I asked him, suddenly annoyed.
“Almost done,” he said, flashing two more times. Then they left.
Not more than five minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. “Sumimasen” (excuse me), someone whispered. I opened the door and three workers—the skinny guy and two new ones—were lined up before me. They were carrying some heavy toolboxes.
“That was quick,” I said to myself, relieved that the work would finally get done. I led them into the bathroom once again, then left them to do their repairs. I went back to the kitchen, where I was painfully trying to concentrate on my doctoral dissertation. I couldn’t wait until the last of the workers would finally be gone.
I heard some whispering, then someone laughed out loud.The others followed. I couldn’t make out the slightest sounds of drilling, screwing, or hammering—just a steady stream of manl
y giggles. Intrigued, I went over to see for myself what the heck was wrong with my o-furo—it had to be something wild, for them to let loose like that. “Is everything all right?” I queried.
“Yes, all right,” said one. “We’re almost done taking pictures,” said another as he whipped another camera out of his pants pocket. I stole a quick look at him, then at the other two, who were squeezed into a corner of the bathroom. My dirty laundry basket lay smack in between them.The lid was off, and what did I see but Bonnie’s and my used underwear—pink and bright yellow—gracefully sprawled over the dingy heap.
I’d been planning to do our laundry that day, but with all the interruptions, I hadn’t had time. I gazed at our dirty panties blatantly displayed before my guests, then scrutinized those three shoeless o-furo workers. They appeared as if they’d just stolen a heap of grandma’s hot home-baked cookies. Or a pile of o-baachan’s rice cakes, rather, since we lived in Japan.
One worker was leaning to the side, trying to conceal the lid of the laundry basket. That’s when I remembered that I had carefully covered the basket, because I didn’t want any workers seeing our dirty laundry. I understood at that moment that those five workers hadn’t come to take pictures of our o-furo, they’d merely come to have a quick sniff of our used girly knickers.
Once I’d reached this conclusion, I pretty much threw the three out of my mansion. In Japan, of course it’s not polite to be rude, but when you catch guys inhaling your private pantsu, or rangelei (just switch the “l” and the “r” and you get “lingerie”), I say you have a right to defend your territory. Especially if you’re a female gaijin (foreigner), and you’ve got a serious deadline to make.
I did need my o-furo fixed though, so as I chucked them out, I tried to act like a respectable gaijin. I pretended I didn’t know what was going on.The skinny one told me they’d be back the next day to fix the tub. They bowed like mad, then finally left me alone.
The Thong Also Rises Page 18