We are like that only

The best part about traveling is that one gets an opportunity to meet ‘real’ people, handling their life’s issues and triumphs on a day-to-day basis.

So there I stood, bag and baggage on frail shoulders waiting endlessly for the-paid-for wheels to arrive to take me to my favourite city, Mumbai. It was a sea of humanity, in their different hues, colour and character. Languages and dialects conjoining together into queries and guffaws. All directed towards one sole subject: getting into the bus and catching a good night’s sleep. Complete with snore and sleep talking!!

Two hours later and somewhere around Sawantwadi, the vehicle’s air-conditioner had conked off and I was stuck with a single seater sleeper bed large enough to fit my little daughter!! It was the first time in my life that I was trying to be truly innovative in finding ways to fit a five-foot frame into a four-feet narrow contraption of a bed. 16 hours is a long time to gaze at the roof of a bus, besides being subjected to verbal assault listening to the barrage of expletives (the vocabulary would make our politicians blush) passed between driver and co-driver. That too, for one single whole night!! How can some people snore through this?

Anyway, halfway between sharing a slice of mango, a sip of Sprite (travel also tests your tolerance for weird food combinations) and exchanging polite camaraderie, it was one Mr Khanna, consultant for a power conservation company, having travelled to Goa enough number of times, who gave me an insight into the unique power problem faced by Goa. Of course, he argued that we had enough resources to update our power intake, besides providing ideal surroundings for setting up power plants. Goa could be made self-sufficient, he was of the opinion, but for the want of proper administration and planning. It was his job to work out these viable possibilities, but regretted that Goa could not provide local manpower to aid the opportunities. ‘So, why do you grumble that outsiders have taken up all the plumb jobs?’ he argued. ‘Goans are simply not competitive enough. They want their luxuries without working towards attaining them,’ he said matter-of-factly. He was eight years into the business and had hardly met any Goan on the negotiating table. ‘My wife says I need competition to brush my skills, but where is the competition?’ he shot back. An elderly co-passenger soon joined in lamenting Goa’s bad transport facilities. ‘They fleece you,’ he supplied, ‘besides going out of their way to knock you down on the streets.’ Goa’s high standard of living and soaring prices were unjustified, he argued, not when Mumbai was a cheaper city to live in, despite being a bustling metropolis. ‘Young people like you could do very well in Mumbai,’ he advised. On the verge of retirement and weighing options to settle down in Goa, he was convinced that staying back in the metro would suit his temperament more, than being run down standing outside his native house.

I counted the stars silently (since sleep evaded me) as the bus sped on the serpentine roads. Pondering on the pearls of wisdom exchanged with a couple of strangers.

But a certain perk (smell and all) picked me up when I reached the city that weaves a thousand dreams. The zest and vigour with which Mumbai went about its job was invigorating. Despite traveling alone, I have yet to get lost or go hungry. And announcing that you are Goan does help in breaking the ice, like it did with the cabby taking me back to the airport (I had had enough of buses). Here was another young lad caught up with wanting to make his own space in the crowded metro. Chatting non-stop, only to bow down his head reverently at Haji Ali, he had told me his life story in a matter of an hour (this, when I had put on one of my most snooty demeanour). He was from Bihar, forced to don the mantel of bread-winner after the demise of his father. He had got his younger brother married, while he himself was working hard enough to save some money to set up a kiosk. He also told me of an incident of how India’s reigning cricketing star, Sachin Tendulkar jumped into his cab when the latter’s vehicle had met with a minor accident. Seeking to avoiding a traffic jam, and the fast collecting mob, Sachin, I was given to believe, asked the Bihari cabby to drop him at his residence. A heavy tip later, today the cabby makes it a point to narrate this story to anybody willing to listen of his short brush with fame. But that’s Mumbai and its people.

Back in Goa, I was fleeced at the airport itself hiring a cab to go home. How on earth does one explain how their kilometer rates jump from Rs 8 (eight months ago) to Rs 12?!! The standard reply being that petrol prices have shot up. Sure. The only thing that I see going up is the crime rate, and that’s saying a lot. Otherwise, how does one explain that almost every second politician is landing at the Goa Medical College feigning heart attacks? 

Sometimes, if only wishes could come true.

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