The task was to collect an important document from Bhimavaram which apparently couldn’t be sent via Blue Dart. So my mother chose her second favourite delivery option.
Me.
I had two options: flight or bus. I declined the flight because the documents could catch fire. So I chose a private bus which, from the news I read, is also just waiting to self-immolate. But it was cheaper.
I’ve read more bad news about private travels than I’ve actually travelled in a private sleeper bus. So I had trust issues.
I was waiting at the private bus’s self-approved pickup point. A temple. I think that’s intentional. Pray before boarding because you never know. Private bus companies are self-aware like that.
I kept double-checking every bus number because I’d read that some private buses use the same number plate on multiple buses. I didn’t want to board the wrong one, wake up in Guntur instead of Bhimavaram, and increase my life risk by taking another private bus.
Ironically, that’s the one thing they’re very particular about. They call you with more manners than Uber drivers because they are definitely not coming back. Driving a sleeper bus on the wrong side is where they draw the line.
If you’re still feeling bad that you couldn’t afford a flight, they recreate the airport experience by first sending a tiny pickup bus to take you to the real sleeper bus. If you’re a first-timer, you’d genuinely think you’ve been scammed. I booked a multi-axle AC sleeper. Why am I in a mini bus that looks like it transports protesters after a tree-cutting protest?
Finally I reached the real bus, got into my berth and noticed a charging point.
Great.
Then I realised I’d forgotten my charger.
My friend Sam ordered one on Instamart to the next traffic signal. That’s how bad city traffic is. You can literally get an Instamart delivery into a moving bus without changing the pickup point.
I’d read that sleeper buses compromise safety for comfort. The moment I lay down, I forgot every article I’d read. It was cosy enough to watch the FIFA World Cup, and the bumps on the road felt like touching a phone on vibration mode.
I even gave credit to the Andhra Pradesh government for smooth roads.
Wrong credit.
On the return journey I booked a normal sitting bus. Same roads, different bus. Suddenly it became, ‘Will my back break in Andhra itself or can it at least survive till Telangana?’
Those seats recline from 90 to 120 degrees, depending on how much you hate the passenger behind you. The guy in front wanted the full 120. I argued him down to 95. Then I reclined my own seat fully because nobody was sitting behind me.
He spent the rest of the journey turning around every five minutes just to hate me.
On a ten-hour bus ride you eventually get lonely. Every passenger walks up to the driver and makes the same small talk.
‘When will we reach Hyderabad?’
Despite having Google Maps.
The driver also stopped at one of those compulsory highway restaurants. I’m convinced the restaurant and the bus company have a deal. Nobody chooses those places on purpose. They don’t sell food. They sell unconsciousness.
Anyway, I reached Hyderabad the same day, played squash the next morning, my back survived, the document didn’t catch fire, and I’ve concluded that private buses aren’t nearly as bad as the news makes them sound.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)
