Misty and Dew - Laden Tales

*Misty and Dew-laden tales..*.

With time, the dynamics of relations alter, feelings toughen, resolutions strengthen and the impact of incidents dilute...What does remain the same is the way you feel about certain things...

Uruka symbolizes one such emotion for me. Traversing through the dheki (ঢেঁকী),  ural (উৰাল), khundona (খুন্দনা),  mixer - grinder to the current - day superfast food processor,  I have seen the pitha (পিঠা) emerging out of different origins - though the shape,  size , taste and texture differs, the aftermath of having eaten one infuses me with the same fulfillment and happiness. In the days leading up to Magh Bihu, the dheki was central to preparing rice flour (পিঠা-গুড়ি) for making pitha and other delicacies. Multiple  family members would gather to operate it, taking turns to press the heavy foot lever while others ensured the rice was ground to perfection. The rhythmic sound of the dheki in the early morning or late evening created a festive atmosphere, and my ears can almost hear that rhythm and the image of Aita,  Borma and Ma operating the  dheki flashes up in front of my eyes. Operating a dheki wasn’t just about grinding rice; it was a team effort. Children, siblings, and cousins often tried their hands at it, with laughter filling the air when someone struggled to match the rhythm.

My senses become fragrant with roasted sesame, ground sticky rice,  kumol  saul (কোমল চাউল) and the syrupy smell of jaggery at my Deuta's home in Lahoal.. The eagerly awaited  night feast of uruka was looked forward to with the same gusto with which we now wait for the exhibitions of  *Assamese mekhela- sadors*!  Deta and the others used to get meat and fish. Fresh river fish used to be the star of the meal, usually  sitol (চিতল), and without fatty mutton or teliya haah (তেলীয়া হাঁহ),  dinner was unimaginable. Chicken was not a staple, and in our household,  there was a separate utensil to cook chicken meat; there was a designated place and soru (চৰু)  outside the main kitchen for cooking chicken.  

Yam or kathaaloo (কাঠ আলু) , usually sliced and fried in hot mustard oil, was the snack of choice. In those days, chips, fish fingers, kebabs, etc were unheard of,  and কাঠ আলু was the star- snack. Jitu da, Deuta, Dhon da, etc gathered at the bor-ghor (বৰ  ঘৰ) to play rummy, while Ranju da waited with  bated breath for the lottery  ticket results! As quinoa,  daliya,  brown rice , etc were alien entities,  the main course comprised of steaming rice , mostly  joha (জহাচাউল) , and black gram dal, thick spicy mutton curry, a delicate fish sour curry (ৰৌ / ভুকুৱা), sitol fish spicy curry, duck meat cooked with ash-gourd - everything usually  cooked in wood fire using mustard oil....A light dish of vegetables was also usually added. Mothers, grandmothers and aunts held the fort in the culinary  area , passing down recipes to younger generations. Uruka used to be a night of lively discussions,  great ambience and merriment.  

The bihu next day was awesome. In the distance, the muffled sound of a rooster's crow signaled the start of the day. Smoke began to curl from the roofs of the houses, as fires were lit to prepare morning meals.I remember that there used to be a  bio-gas plant (গোবৰ গেছ) plant in our backyard. The rhythmic sound of dheki echoed faintly, blending seamlessly with the chirping of sparrows and the occasional moo of a cow. There were no loud speakers blaring out cacophony. Waking up early in the morning,  we took an early shower and rushed to see the meji (মেজি) being lit. It was said that after that day, the winter season wanes. The mist hung low over the fields, blurring the lines between the earth and the sky. It felt as if the world was cocooned in a dream, where every sound was muffled and every movement deliberate. The air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the faint aroma of freshly harvested paddy and the lingering scent of firewood from the night before. I can vividly see the people who created such magic in my life, but are no longer with me now - Deuta, Aita, Arun Bortta,  Rin Jethai,  Lila Jethai,  Margherita Jethai, Naamti Jethai, Bina Jethai, Puna Bortta, Bipul da and the many others who faded  into nowhere......Walking barefoot on the fields was an experience in itself. The grass, heavy with dew, sparkled in the soft morning light like a million tiny diamonds. Each step left an imprint, a fleeting mark of life on the soaked earth. The touch of the cold dew against the skin was a reminder of nature's raw beauty—pure, untamed, and alive.

After the meji burning, all would have breakfast  together, sitting in the winter morning sun. Gathering around the meji on the morning of Bihu, with everyone dressed in traditional attire, chanting prayers, and making offerings to the fire, used to be  a serene and unifying moment. The foggy mornings, dew-laden fields, and smell of firewood burning created a sensory memory that is hard to forget. The innocence and slower pace of life  added charm to the festival. Now, surrounded by concrete,  feeding myself with various irrelevant information from the internet, sipping bitter black coffee with readymade pitha from the local grocer and gazing at the pitiful meji on my immaculate terrace, I long for the misty mornings and dew-laden fields which held a profound stillness that invited reflection, which were taken for granted by my younger self. In the quiet of nature, there was a sense of belonging, of being part of something larger. The world, though seemingly vast, felt intimate, as if every blade of grass and every drop of dew had its place and purpose. And as the driver rings the bell to collect the car keys, I sigh and get up to face the day, thinking of the fine til-pitha, long and smooth,  made lovingly by Anju Borma, and the eagerness to talk about small nothings with Lina ba and Juna ba...

The Weedy Times..

"That is not a drug, it’s a leaf.”, so said Arnold Schwarzenegger…

And this holds true when in your mid-40s, you are in a reunion and you meet your old hostel mates and college friends, and suddenly you are no longer this almost-old man with receding hairline and bulging tummy. Back during our student days, it almost felt cultural for most of us to be smoking weed together. 

For obvious reasons, I will refrain from taking “real names” in this write-up! Let’s see if you can guess who are the characters in these paragraphs. 

So, going back to the  weed-story  I began with, let me tell you that it was a total - filmi atmosphere for smoking weed. The scene was reminiscent of a sexy Zeenat Aman swaying to ‘dum-maro-dum’ in a dimly lit overcrowded room. (You just need to substitute the actors with a middle-aged mélange of doctors who had flocked in from near and far in a picturesque resort, tucked away in the lush jungles of a complacent north-eastern state of India.). The crowd was grooving to the music, the rhythmic beats creating a sentimental trail from the present to the past. 

I, the unofficial and self-proclaimed caretaker of the group, was also enjoying the vibe. It was awesome to be with friends, and it was more satisfying to see everyone enjoying the moment. With two left feet, I found myself shaking a leg to the music, and another “serious” /straight-lipped / proper / ladylike / professional friend of mine, who never deviates from her breakfast-lunch-supper routine and regularly meditates, began dancing! Even more surprising was to see another friend with a couple of fused vertebrae setting the dance floor ablaze with her moves.

Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I was pulled aside by the culprit. “Chakro, look look! Weed!!!” Ms. Composed remarked, widening her eyes (her eyes were almost as big as mine at that precise moment). I looked around and saw Mike Tyson and Khali rolling up innocent cigarettes. I, a pathetic teetotaler who knows no distinction between Phantom cigarette and Bandor bidi, was not much interested in the development taking place. Ms. Composed was a bit worried as she does not like her bedsheets crumbled, and she must have envisaged the weedy-worries that would ensue in case the guys reached a “high”.  I consulted Ms. Sexy-Back on the matter, and she comforted me by saying that normies will always be normies, and they don’t necessarily like it when someone is smoking weed. I was reassured by her words and decided to ignore it.

In no time, Mr. Lone-Wolf joined in to roll the joint. He saw me looking stealthily at him with child-like curiosity,  and taking pity on my seemingly pathetic knowledge on weed, he decided to teach me a few things about it. I know – it is not easy to learn and retain knowledge at the age I am in, but Lone-Wolf can be a lucid speaker at times. He told me that people reach for cannabis mainly to soothe their anxiety, and also has some of other, non-chill effects — such as the giggles — which enhance the experience. If you consume weed, you likely know the feeling: constantly teetering on the brink of laughter, even if nothing remotely funny is happening. He also noted that weed also lowers the inhibition of your laugh reflex — say, in situations that your sober mind would deem giggling inappropriate — by acting on the frontal lobe, responsible for inhibiting behavior. Having had enough of the lessons being given, I drifted away to meet Ms. White-Lee, who seemed a bit lost in the crowd. She expected some more fun, but was a bit disappointed at the tepid middle-aged doctors whose kids were either in college or were on the threshold of school and college. However, “spirits” managed to lift her spirits, and it felt good to see her finally mingling with the others and enjoying the party.

Meanwhile, Ms. Composed remained worried. Weed was in her mind, and sitting with her, I was waiting for the “smokers” to laugh and roll on the floor. I reached out to Mind-Lamp and God-of-Light and told them to arrange for smooth transportation of the would-be -gigglers to their respective rooms so that the kids in the room are not alarmed.  So, it came as a huge surprise to me  when even after a couple of hours of keeping watch over the smokers like a loyal watchdog, I saw no changes in the demeanour of my weed-smoking friends.

The party ended, and it was time for the much-awaited after-party _

adda. Clad in an alluring satin kaftan, Ms. Sexy Back teamed up with Ms. New Leaf and took the best chairs in the verandah. As Ms. Dimpled-Smile started gobbling up the apples which I was painstakingly chopping, the “weeders” joined in. I could not contain my curiosity and at last asked them why they weren’t behaving like conventional “weed-smokers”. One of them, who could have married me if he was so interested in marrying a Virgo, narrated the sorry state of “weeds” in the jungle. 

When the interested guys enquired about the “item” at the reception, initially the receptionist feigned ignorance. Then a “peddler”, who was lurking nearby, took them aside and promised them the most potent staff which was available at the local Shiva temple. Upon reaching the temple with the ”peddler”, they were told to go to the nearby local “weed-adda”, and my friends were very satisfied with the potent fragrance in the air. They bought the stuff and came back to join the party. Unfortunately, the item turned out to be of inferior quality, and Mr. Rockstar remarked that Wills Filter gave more  “high” than the “weed” of the jungle! Ms. Dimpled-Smile decided to take a few puffs to test its authenticity, and when even she didn’t giggle, the weed was officially announced unfit for public consumption.

Mr. Unrequited Love, who found the entire situation very disappointing, specifically requested me to arrange for better and genuine stuff in the next reunion. Mr. Hero of Mahabharat was so unaffected by all this that he managed to reach a “new high” with a couple of puffs of Wills Filter. Mr. Mind-Lamp and Ms. Curly-to-Straight hair took the matter sportingly, whereas Ms. Polka Dots giggled her way to the bed with a grey shawl covering her cute head. 

And thus, though the weed-tale ended in a whimper,  we got high, higher and highest with our  gossips and giggles…

The faces which disappeared

Everything in this world will end one day. Be it the majestic dinosaurs, the mighty Mughals or the strong British colonial rule of India, every presence fades away to oblivion. Today, I remember two strong people of the Hindi film industry who are now gone, almost - Ramu Kaka and the serious doctor with his brown leather bag. 

Ramu Kaka's legacy is formidable for my generation. Known for his honesty, hard work and wisdom, Ramu Kaka was the right hand of the malkin (the lady of the house) and the man Friday of the maalik (the master of the house). Dressed inevitably in a grey/beige kurta with a red gamcha around his neck, with white pajamas, Kaka remained loyal to a particular family for generations, serving the father, the son and then the grandson, until he grew impossibly old, wearing black-rimmed spectacles. Kaka was finally pensioned off to the village he came from, and his son and grandson took his place in the household. Wiping a lone tear when the spoilt son insulted Ramu Kaka and called him by name (instead of "Kaka"), our Kaka was quick to forgive  "Dipu Baba" or "Chotey Sahib". He cooked, cleaned and sometimes helped the master take important decisions by giving insightful suggestions. Ramu Kaka's unwavering loyalty and dedication made him an important part of the household,  and without whom the family would have run like a vehicle with punctured tyres. 

It's not that our dear Kaka just toiled in the household.  He was a person with inherent responsibilities.  Ramu Kaka trained the new brides, who married the Saheb or Chota Saheb - be it cooking, learning the rules of the house or knowing the likes and dislikes of the husband, Ramu Kaka's presence was of utmost importance.  He also tended to the impressive garden which had a variety of flowers. Ramu Kaka bossed over the other servants in the house and also had a say in selecting the subordinate servants.  Most importantly,  despite being a part of almost everything that mattered in the household,  Ramu Kaka never rose to prominence and remained blended in the background.  

While innumerable actors have portrayed Ramu Kaka on the silver screen,  two names stand out,  Satyen Kappu and A.K. Hangal. These two artists immortalized Kaka in the archives of the Hindi film industry. 

So how did Ramu Kaka die? Let me explain. Joint families disappeared and the communal existence of yesteryear transformed into isolated existence of nuclear families. In addition,  the need for space and privacy, which were unheard of in large joint households, was not conducive with the constant nagging presence of Ramu Kaka who lived, ate, worked and slept in the house.  The screen now lights up with the efficient Kanta Bai, who works part-time, and in multiple households.  And thus, Ramu Kaka died a dignified,  but definite, death. The sturdy decency associated with household helps disappeared with the demise of Ramu Kaka from Hindi films.

The medical profession is associated with trust, hope and confidence.  Yet, decades back when we were kids, the character of "doctor" implied melancholy and fatality in Hindi movies.  Usually played by an unsmiling male actor ( the only exception being the obstetrician, who was always a middle aged lady doctor in crisp cotton saree and oversized spectacles), the doctor carried a brown leather briefcase or bag,  and he never smiled. His clinical acumen was sharp because he was trained to diagnose everything from "mamooli bukhar" to "brain tumour" by just checking the pulse for ten seconds.  His medicine was invariably a white tablet (ek goli subah, ek shaam ko). But most commonly,  he told the attendants to seek divine intervention (aapke mariz ko dawa ki nahi duwa ki zaroorat hain) rather than soliciting a second opinion. 

The Doctor Sahib in movies made unpaid home visits and refused financial remuneration even when offered by the patient's relatives. The doctor of yesteryears performed complicated surgeries in his regular dress, with just a green gown thrown carelessly over his formal dress , and carried out "antigravity blood transfusions" (blood rose up a plastic tube from the donor to a bottle,  and went via another tube to the patient). On some rare occasions,  he glanced at x-ray films and arrived at a rare diagnosis. He minced no words in informing the patient about his/her imminent death, and could accurately tell the number of days for which the patient will remain alive.

It was a brutal yet final end to our no-nonsense doctor - the place is now taken over by the smart, soft-spoken and smiling doctor who devotes a respectable amount of time in explaining and counseling.  

But even now, a pair of rheumy eyes with black-rimmed spectacles and a red gamcha around the neck reminds me of Ramu Kaka's presence.  And a brown leather briefcase resonates with the advice to seek divine intervention rather than relying on medication to expect improvement in the patient 's condition!

The brew-haunt

Well, well......At last I realize that I am wiser...The tea that I had been sipping since my childhood isn't actually tea! That's what I have been made to understand...

Let me elaborate,  and this might be a tedious tale for the fast-paced youngsters (I am counting on my contemporaries,  the "mid-forties-oldies", to take a glance at this write up).

My earliest memories of "tea" (the inverted commas are meant to signify the importance of the beverage being discussed) goes back to my mother, aunts, grandmother and elder female relatives telling me to refrain from sipping it as the brew could potentially darken my skin tone.  Though I am not sure why this was said, I guess during those days drinking tea was an "adult thing". Since our parents were mere parents and were neither our friend nor confidante, we had no option but to follow their dictat to the t. Nevertheless,  it was not until I reached my teenage years that I had my first cup of the golden brew. Milk tea with sugar, sometimes flavored with bay leaves, cardamom and/or ginger, became a staple in my daily routine.  One cup of tea was a must everyday,  and by the time I reached my twenties,  the daily cuppa doubled, trebled and multiplied many times over.

Once upon a time (read, my childhood years), tea liqueur without milk, or phika saah, was an almost non-entity in the average Assamese household. If the host posed the question, "Will you have phika saah?" to the guests, it was automatically assumed that the host was miserly. Phika saah, when at all was consumed, was served in a bell-metal bowl, with a piece of jaggery to go with it in the village households. The only sophisticated exception was in the tea-table layout of the tea-estate managers and the remnants of the British-time people.  

Decades passed, and amenities increased. Manual work lessened, life became easier and better; lifestyle diseases slowly entered every home. And with that, milk-tea laced with sugar faded into the oblivion.  The erstwhile miserly "phika saah" slowly became a familiar beverage. Hosts stated straightaway to their guests that milk is no longer used with tea. Milk-tea is now an exception,  not the norm. In addition,  the "taah" (accompanying food item) which came with "saah" (tea), changed from poori-potato fry - omellete, to sweets-samosa, to cream-biscuit, to digestive biscuits - to nothing!

But tea was tea till this phase. Let me talk about the confusion that followed. 

During my youth, tea was either orthodox or CTC, with the former associated with aroma and phika saah, and the latter with economy and milk tea. But slowly,  many appellations surfaced. What was earlier technical now became quotidian.  Oolong, pu-erh, white, yellow, first-flush, second-flush, silver-tip, etc were uttered in everyday conversations.  In fact, I was told that sencha, matcha and bancha were subtypes of unoxidized green tea! "Silver needle" and "white peony" are not embroidery types, but are types of white tea, and so on. To this long and confusing list, another agonizing variant, tactically named "herbal tea" or "tisanes", joined the queue.  Herbal tea, I was told,  is actually not related to "tea", but is everything else but tea, which includes rooibos,  chamomile, hibiscus,  peppermint, blue-pea flower and a lot many more, packaged and brewed like yesteryear's good, old tea! So despite being "not tea", it has forayed into the tea-table with such a vengeance and aggression that in many households camellia sinensis (original, real tea plant) has become a non-entity.  

Also, the simplicity of brewing tea leaves to serve as mere "tea" is fast becoming obsolete.  Flavoured with exotic additives like vanilla, chocolate,  jasmine, hazelnut,  maple sap and what not, sipping a cup of tea is akin to going to a seance or treading an unknown path. Then there is this "tandoori tea" which I had the opportunity to taste in Jaipur this year. I had this misguided notion that "tandoori" was a term associated with rotis and chicken; it was a huge shock to see my mundane tea reach such "tandoori heights"! I wonder what would have been the reaction of Charles Alexander Bruce and Maniram Dutta Baruah to this complicated state of affairs.  

My life was not pitiful till that fateful day in March this year when I was informed that all this time, my ancestors and I were being fed garbage in the name of tea. While I knew that the best quality tea got auctioned and was imported, I always found solace in the fact that we, the common people,  were supplied the medium or low quality types of tea. I also thought that I could buy the best tea by paying more. A few of my relatives,  including my maternal uncles, had worked in tea-estates, and their visits were eagerly awaited as they always brought good quality tea (as assured by everyone around me), wrapped in airtight silver packets. But alas, my thoughts were doomed. I was again informed,  by multiple sources - both actual and virtual - that what had been served to us in the name of tea all these years is nothing but the leftovers, or garbage. It seems nowadays the only real tea comes in unbelievably expensive sachets which are not available in our regular gela-maal stores. Tea tasters, who I always thought were limited, highly trained and gifted professionals, are now being produced in crops, thanks to various online guidance and crash courses. So, I am at my wits end as far a tea is concerned; I wish I could connect with Mr Bruce for his precious inputs in this matter.

But life is unpredictable - one can never know its mysterious and unforeseen ways. Let me quote Robert Frost here.

"I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference."

So, I took the other road to satiate my greedy palate and throat. One fine evening years ago, thanks to a smart friend,  I ditched my companion tea, for a less complicated partner, which goes by the name "coffee". Life became easier with plain black coffee - no milk, no sugar. Straight out of the bottle, and with plain hot water, I found magic again.

Just when I was getting used to the feel and aroma of coffee and life was becoming a comfortable mundane, my cousin met me for coffee at a beautiful cafè one evening and shattered the peace of my mind. She asked me which coffee was my favourite - arabica, robusta, luwak, filter, etc. I stared at her. She, oblivious to my terror, went further to enquire how I liked my coffee to be prepared - with aeropress,  pour-over, French- press, mocha-pot, drip, kalita-wave, vaccum-pot or something else. I  guess I  blacked out soon after, because I do not remember how the black coffee tasted that fateful evening. 

And thus, the complications started, all over again. 

An Article

THE BUS RIDE

Those were the days when school kids and young people were not seen driving their own two or four wheelers. It was not because affordability was an issue – I guess people back then had no qualms being a part of the crowd. Everyone belonged, and loved being so, to the city, and human to human interaction (actual, not virtual) was the norm. And in those days, an important place to bond over with all was the city bus. Yes, you heard it right. My earliest memory goes back to the long-nosed green and yellow buses with wooden seats. The handyman, with his Mithun/Amitabh-que hairstyle, hung by the handrail on the front door, one foot hanging in the air and the other placed precariously on the footboard, beckoning passengers to board his bus; the solemn conductor, on the other hand, stood apart with a bundle of currency notes and yellow ticket-pads on his hands. His frowned at defaulters and his innate concentration while counting the change to be rendered to the impatient traveler was omnipresent. It was the period when we, the pre-pubertal lot, were chaperoned by some elder on these journeys. There were no seats reserved for females, the old or for the specially abled passengers. One sat promptly on any vacant seat, and as in musical chair, the game of exclusion and inclusion continued in these buses. The window seat was coveted, with our eager eyes longingly looking out for the roadside milk or orange-ice-cream vendors and jhaal-muri sellers. Our pleading looks for an occasional ambrosia on these buses were usually dealt with by a cruel stare or a long verbal tirade about our reluctance to eat home-cooked food and our craving for unhealthy ‘outside’ food. Almost everyone knew each other in those days. Once I was travelling with a neighbour’s daughter as her companion to buy petticoats and rubiya-two-by-two blouse piece from Fancy Bazar. I was sitting on the window seat, greedily staring at the ice-cream-on-sticks being sold by an eager vendor by the roadside, when my neighbour’s daughter pinched me hard on my arm. Rubbing my hurt skin, I turned to ask her why she was being so cruel when she signaled me to shut up, making funny gestures with her lips and rotating her eyeballs hysterically. I was scared at her reaction when suddenly she pulled me closer and whispered in my ear, “Look, that is Saikia Aunty’s son with Baruah Uncle’s daughter, sitting together, in the seat in front of us!” As ten-year-olds happened to be insignificant, childish ten-year-olds in those days, I wondered what the issue was all about – I just saw two harmless adults sitting side by side in the city bus and chatting normally. It was a good couple of months later, at the ring-ceremony of Saikia Aunty’s son and Baruah Uncle’s daughter, that my friend’s elder sister told us that the ‘incident’ of ‘catching them in the bus together’ that day by our neighbour’s daughter had ‘opened the eyes’ of the families - I wonder if the two young people were actually dating each other – and they had decided to ‘formalize’ the liaison before tongues started to wag. Years passed, and fares got converted from paise to rupee, and the city buses changed form. In came the minibuses, which were modern-looking, smaller and faster. The handymen became aggressive, and their calls became loud and robust – shouts of Adabari-bus stand-Maligaon-Pandu, etc. started to cut through the erstwhile quietness of Guwahati life. It was during this time that the image of the angry young handyman, with Rahul-Roy-hair locks and tobacco-stained teeth, became a common face in the city bus scenario. Betel-nut and betel-leaf became a passé, and various tobacco concoctions in fancy sachets became the in-thing for the handymen. By this time, a few privileged young men started plying their two wheelers in the wide city roads. But the majority of us still travelled by bus, with a few lucky, occasional ride on rickshaws and a very rare ride on autos (which I usually avoided as the haggle for fare between the driver and my adult companions, be it my mother, cousin or whosoever, was a matter of major public-shame for me). Nevertheless, it was during this time that I remember seats getting reserved for females in these buses. On one such ride, before minibuses became canters, there was this unpleasant experience. I had boarded a crowded bus, on the way for my mathematics tuition classes, when the middle-aged man standing behind me started to lean on me, trying to grope me. I was uncomfortable, but ‘me-too’ was unheard of then, and I became teary-eyed. The handyman saw my discomfort, and the good Samaritan held the culprit by his collars and pushed him out of the bus at the Chandmari bus stoppage. A few other passengers also had their ‘angry-young-men’ moment that day. And then came the canters, which were painted chocolate and a pale yellow. These were swanky avatars of the mini buses. Business had become serious by then, with stiff competition between the buses, and handymen went to the extent of dragging passengers to their buses if they headed towards another bus. They did not merely stop at shouting out the names of the bus stops – they used interesting one liners like, ‘there’s enough space for you all to play football inside my bus’, ‘our bus travels faster than the plane’, etc. The seats had become more comfortable, and fares were higher now. The conductor had difficulty in checking the conduct of the passengers which crowded the bus. Faces became unfamiliar in the increasing melee of the city’s population. Female seat reservation was serious business, and even the geriatric male passenger dared not to sit in those seats – he would rather lean on his cane and clutch the conductor rather than be at the receiving end of an angry woman’s tirade. Though those were not days of the GPS and other tracking means, still our parents did not seem to worry much about our safety and well-being. We usually boarded the correct bus, and the handyman ensured that we got down safely at the designated stoppage. It was somewhere during the late canter-era that another set of majestic vehicles dotted the city’s landscape – the Rhino buses. The large buses, painted either bright green or subtle blue, looked good and ushered in the phase of travelling in air-conditioned luxury in the city. These beasts on wheels had a heavy presence, plied carefully on the city roads, had higher fares and looked modern. With the foray of trackers and shared three wheelers, the Rhinos slowly faded into oblivion. And now, when I have the luxury to travel in my four-wheeler, I glance at the city buses. I miss the commotion of the crowd I travelled with, the confusion the day after fare price hikes were announced and the elation of grabbing the window seat. The endless chats in the bus with my constant travel companion Julie on the way to college, running across the railway crossing at Chandmari to grab the tracker or the odd rickshaw as city buses did not ply on that route to our college, and the suddenly planned trips to Fancy Bazar with friends for chapta-chana or the Feeds-roll….All I have for company now, as I head home from work in the solitude of my car, is the comrade called mobile phone which makes me go further away from all that was once familiar. And with city buses, everyday mundane travelling was not just a tour – it was a story, an experience to remember… ************************************************************************************

THE ASSAM TRIBUNE, 4TH OF JUNE 2023