Conversation Histories: KSRTC Kronicles...

       

           I've developed a most annoying habit of frequently missing buses. This often happens due to the various ad hoc undertakings that I manage to get involved in, be it at home, in the office or anywhere for that matter. Most of these events manifest abruptly and at the eleventh hour…often leaving me to grapple between odd options.

          Not long ago, one such last-minute feat left me with a Hobson’s choice between taking a dive into an already crammed bus and missing, what looked like, one of the last buses available during that hour of dusk, heading towards the part of the city where I lived. As it was getting late and dark, I didn’t want to wait any longer or waste time considering different 'imaginary' options. 

          Along with the tussling techies, certain North Indian building laborers were also trying their best to throw themselves into the bus. They were pushing and spading out a way for themselves among the crowd with their formidable-looking work-tools to attain a proper relative position within the available inter-molecular spaces inside the jam-packed bus.

It is common knowledge now that the mass migration of Malayalis to ‘The Gelf’ now no longer contributes to the loss of ecological equilibrium in this part of the world, i.e. God's Own Country, thanks to the directly proportional inward flow of thousands of migrant laborers in search of jobs to Kerala, from places like Odisha, Bihar & West Bengal.

          The bus conductor was only partially visible to me. From the tip of the ice-berg that I could see, I could make out that he was fuming upon noticing that an armed migratory invasion was establishing itself forcefully upon an already crammed territory, and that too wielding their flurry of frightful contraptions! 

           After around a couple of minutes of fuming, which I later understood was a frantic working of his internal *mal-hindi translator, he started off with a tirade of reproaches to the pushing aur pulling aadmi log. And then……  

Hindi died.

Bus Conductor – (*angry & fuming*): Bhai log tum kya karte ho? Waha stand mat karo. Push mat karo! Move to the front!

A Laborer- (*nearly crammed to death*): Ek ticket de saab. World market ishhtop.

Bus conductor – (*irate*): Nahi pehle tum bus ke upar jao! Move to the front! I SAY ‘UPAR JAO’!!!

Laborer – (*confused*): Saab, kya keh rahe hain aap? Ab upar kaise jaun? Ek ticket dijiye.  

Bus conductor – (*mad*): Tum back-answer mat karo. No talking. UPAR JAO!!! UPARRRRRR!!!

Laborer – (*eye rolling upwards*): Hey Bhagwaan.. Uthaa le..!!

.......................

An Afterthought : Having written all this, I must unblushingly admit that my apna Hindi is a 'world-wonder' too. But guess it's always healthy to know well enough to check the pulse at least... just to confirm if it's remarkably dead or not...


 *mal-hindi translator - The Malayalam-Hindi Translator...or other such situational translators are subconscious emergency-mental-devices that every Malayali bears within his/her psyche that comes into play when they come into sudden contact with 'foreign bodies' articulating in a completely or partially unfamiliar tongue. A clever mechanism, often with disastrous results.

Pic Courtesy:  Google