It was our only link with Munnar—25 km from the remote, mist-shrouded tea estate where we grew up in the 1950s. The wheezy 20-seater Bedford minibus had certainly seen better days but now sported peeling paint, torn upholstery, worn-out tyres and a general air of neglect. Yet it doggedly ferried us to and fro, groaning up the steep gradients and speeding down the slopes, with veteran driver Mathai at the wheel.
Besides an assortment of cargo, the bus usually carried a minimum of 50 passengers within its cramped confines, packed tighter than a tin of sardines. The spillover, usually bold youngsters, travelled adventurously atop it, clinging precariously to the iron ladder at the rear or hanging out of the doorway.
Space was always scarce and many had to make do with a mere foothold.Inside, standing passengers rubbed shoulders as the vehicle lurched along, the numbing jolts generated by the potholed road mercifully cushioned to some extent by the tight packing! Physical agility was often needed to corner a seat. And this sometimes resulted in ‘musical chairs’ of sorts being played out. Once two elders targeted the only available seat and made a dash for it—with one landing heavily in the lap of the other much to our amusement.
The wiry conductor would literally worm his way through the mass of passengers much like a professional contortionist, clutching his leather bag and ticket book. Lightly moistening a forefinger on the tip of his tongue, he would tear off a perforated ticket as we kids smirked, recalling our teacher Ms Jeremiah’s dictum about hygiene.
Moving my cramped feet, I once heard an irate squawk and something nicked my ankle sharply. It was a big rooster, its legs trussed up, eyeing me malevolently from below. Goats, too, were shoved under the seats, the only indication of their presence being an occasional—and startling—bleat.
En route, as the bus approached in a huge cloud of dust, grimacing Brits would prudently stop their cars, quickly wind up the windows and let our rattletrap pass, while their kids gazed wide-eyed and wonderstruck at the human mass inside, not to mention the ‘acrobats’ perched on the roof and clinging tenaciously behind. Unsurprisingly, at the end of the journey one often emerged from the boneshaker looking as if one had been involved in a street brawl—with one’s clothes, hair and composure dishevelled and dusty!
Email: gnettomunnar@rediffmail.com