Coming home-part 1

4.30am.

A slight breeze helped cool the sickly humidity that pervaded the air. The windows were rolled down completely. I rested my chin on the sill and looked out. On one side was a forest (well, sort of...at least a dense shrubbery, and in the darkness, very much a forest!) and on the other was a mountain of trucks. Sandwiched in between them in a smallish SUV was me, the driver (whom I don’t know from Adam) and my co-passengers. 2 gentlemen I have never met before, and will likely never meet again. We were about 3 kilometers from Lonavala, an erstwhile hill station (now merely a town gasping for breath) in the Western Ghats, exactly midway between Mumbai and Pune. We’d been stuck in the exact same spot for 1 hour. The car hadn’t moved an inch. I considered the folly of moving around on a bladder that felt uncomfortably full, and decided I’d risk it. I couldn’t stay put anymore. All I’d done in the last 20 hours was sit.

A mad rush to make my flight from Boston to Amsterdam on the hottest day in Boston this year, meant I boarded my flight almost last and uncomfortably sweaty. The flight left 45 minutes late anyway, which made my connection in Amsterdam slightly tight and my patience with the smarmy European bastard who chose to subject me to an inquest at Security in Amsterdam ran very low. Any elation at landing in Mumbai was stamped out when the unhelpful staff at Mumbai International Disgrace for an Airport discarded the Indian ethos of “Jugaaduness” and decided to become sticklers for following the extremely fucked up rules. I was supposed to wait at the airport for my father who was landing 3 hours after me, so we could head home together. But I was told I couldn’t wait in any area that had any fucking chairs. The rules at Mumbai airport apparently precluded the use of chairs for passengers who were waiting for anything/one. I was told I could sit in the lobby before the exit. I felt a little like I was 12 years old and suffering through my first few periods in my Grandmother’s home. There I’d be relegated to the floor for those 3 special days. I squatted on my luggage in the lobby and considered the options when my Mom called to inform me that Dad’s flight was delayed. Since squatting on the lobby floor for 6 hours didn’t appeal, I decided to take a cab and head home. Before that, my friend’s husband came to the airport to pick up something she’d sent for him. It’s amazing how uplifting a friendly face can be.

I’d hadn’t finished my sentence about how vulnerable I’d felt landing in Mumbai without any rupees on me before he emptied his entire wallet in my hands.

“But I changed money at the changers,” I protested.

“You should still keep this,” he said.

“But I don’t need it, “I said.

“Just keep it. Return it later,” he insisted. I pocketed the money embarrassedly, and swallowed the watermelon juice he bought me in a “Restaurant/Bar” right outside Mumbai airport, while I waited for my “Shared Taxi”.

An hour later we were at Khopoli on the Mumbai-Pune expressway. Khopoli has one of the several food courts on the highway. It’s famous for its vada pavs. If I’d been traveling with family or friends, I’d have damned the fact that it was 3.30am and gotten myself a “cutting chai” and Vada pav. Since I was alone, I decided to stay put. A soft voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Would you like something to eat?” asked one of my co-travelers. I thanked him and said No, and then reflected on the strangeness of Indian kindness. Here was a man who knew me not at all, asking if I wanted to eat something. An hour ago, another friend had embarrassed the life out of me because I’d merely voiced an incomplete thought about not having Indian money on me. And the people who were supposed to help you (for example, staff at the International Disgrace for an Airport named after a overrated Maharashtrian Hero) were completely unhelpful.

An hour later, we were stuck in the traffic jam.

The driver came back with news. Apparently a container had overturned on the expressway, blocking one and a half lanes. The other truck drivers had decided to call it a night since the forklift would be a while getting there. They had simply parked their trucks on the expressway and retired for the night. Yes, you read that right. They had decided to take a nap. In the middle of the road. Therefore, the several thousand smaller vehicles behind them who could have made it past the accident site (the expressway is 3 lanes wide) were all stuck. Because a few truck drivers wanted a nap. WTF doesn’t begin to describe the beauty of the situation.

“It’s the police and the government. They’re bloody useless,” said the driver, leaning back in his seat. A heated discussion ensued in the car about how the government was completely ineffective and how the tax-payer’s hard-earned money was baing wasted. I chose not to comment. I don’t pay taxes in India. So, I didn’t think I was qualified to complain. Besides, I was enjoying this, I realized. Being stuck in the expressway, surrounded by trucks that looked like they would keel over at any moment with a smart-mouthed (but entertaining) driver and 2 very nice co-passengers for company. I risked my full bladder busting and walked out of the car to chat with the guys who had stepped out for a smoke. They passed a sutta around and politely didn’t offer it to me. They discussed the merits of Sheesha and the price of Glenfidditch at the Mumbai duty free. I told them about my long love affair with education. They were suitably appalled and told me I was too educated for my own good. I concurred vehemently.

An old gentleman sauntered by for a chat. He was from Nagpur, headed to Pune (exactly, Magarpatta near Hadapsar) to his son’s house for a family function. His daughter and son-in-law worked in IT and also lived in Pune. He was from Nagpur and he hated it when people referred to it as the city of Oranges. “There’s so much more to Nagpur than oranges!” he said, his crooked teeth bared in a grimace. How do I know his family history you ask? Because our driver liked to talk, you see. I smiled to myself, a silent spectator to this very interesting conversation about everything and nothing. I loved this. The easy exchange of information. The personal questions that were asked without hesitation and answered without malice. In India, we are all friends in 5 minutes.

Suddenly, vehicles ahead of us moved. We got into the car excitedly. We drove about 2 kms to where the overturned container lay on the road, it’s bright yellow color shining sickly in the glow of headlights and flashlights. A truck was just ahead of us. Suddenly it groaned and fell silent.

“Saala!” said the driver. “He’s overloaded the truck and now it can’t climb up the slope,” he explained to me when I looked at him puzzled. I watched in open-mouthed horror as the truck slipped back a few inches towards out car.

“Back it up, please,” I begged the driver, who kindly obliged. We waited another 15 minutes for the truck driver to finally get his poor, overworked, gasping engine to move and get his huge ass out of our way. I distributed a slightly melted bar of Godiva to my companions to celebrate our deliverance from the jam. We’d been stuck on the road for close to 2 hours. They thanked me for the chocolate and inquired as to its exact price. After that we all fell silent. Driver focused on getting us home. Gentlemen in the back slept. And I looked out of the window. Somewhere in this sojourn, darkness had given way to silvery sunrise. A slight haze grazed the tops of the green Western Ghats. It was cool and breezy. The humidity had disappeared. Even Radio City (91.1 FM) had decided to switch from the “Anarkali disco chali” type music to soothing Maharashtrian abhangs. As we crossed into Pune, I realized to my horror that I probably would get lost trying to navigate the driver to my home. Everything seemed different. Thankfully, he knew the way.

After only 1 minor hiccup wherein I almost left my passport in the car, I thankfully took the elevators up to the 3rd floor, where a welcoming Mother waited with an even more welcoming platter of steaming idlis and chutney. I was home.

Part 2 to follow.