At five in the morning, Jack stood next to Robin’s bed and woke him. ‘Robin Babu, Robin Babu, wake up, it’s going to be five.’ Robin, still half asleep, answered, ‘Just getting up, Jack.’ Then Jack continued, ‘Last night you forgot to lock the door. There is no fear of thieves and dacoits as such, but yes, there is threat from wild animals. Just recently a wild elephant had entered Danny Meredith’s compound, and then last winter a leopard was found in Dr Govind Goswami’s garden.’ Robin feigned fear, but Jack reassured him that it was not so bad, although it was always good to assert caution. Then Robin remembered that the taxi driver too had warned him against wild beasts.
It was getting on to 5.30 a.m. Robin quickly went in for his bath and returned wearing a pair of blue jeans and a red T-shirt for himself. Just then Jack walked in with the breakfast tray, ‘Too much,’ Robin exclaimed, seeing the elaborate breakfast. ‘The tea is OK, but I am not used to such an early breakfast.’ Then Jack admonished him, ‘There is no certainty where you will eat during the day in Ranchi. You may not be back by lunchtime, which is why you should eat what I have prepared for you.’
After breakfast, Robin took his wallet and, glancing at himself in the mirror, left the room. Outside in the verandah, Mr Miller was sipping his tea and listening to classical music on his transistor. He said, ‘Leaving already? It’s still two-and-a-half hours for the bus to arrive,’ and Robin answered, ‘It’s okay, Uncle, I will walk around a little. Should be back before evening.’ Mr Miller said, ‘Go straight to Mrs Tomalin’s house. The bus arrives there at 9.30 a.m., just motion for it to stop. The fare is six rupees for Ranchi.’
Robin sauntered along the road that wound to
Mrs Tomalin’s. On the way, he noticed mango orchards on both sides. The trees were all laden with fruits. Jack had told him that although the trees were full of mangoes, they still needed a few showers to ripen. Robin had always loved mangoes. When they appeared in the fruit market in Hong Kong, Dennis was always the first to get them for Robin. But these orchards were spectacular in themselves. Dennis used to say that the fun of plucking and eating mangoes and guavas, straight from the trees was a treat in itself. Robin moved along, observing as he went. He saw largish red ants burrowing in and out of the twigs and branches of the trees while the mangoes swayed gently, like the full breasts of attractive Adivasi girls. By now Robin had reached Alice Tomalin’s house opposite which stood Dr Govind Goswami’s residence. Robin figured that he would have to meet them soon.
By then the sun had got quite strong. The laburnums were reflecting the heat, hanging as they were like a million lanterns. And although they offered no umbrage, they had covered the road with a yellow carpet. Yet there were other trees that afforded shade, but Robin for some reason preferred the amaltas. Robin waited, but there were no other passengers. Robin thought that perhaps that was how it was on certain days. Maybe he would be the only one today. There still remained some ten to fifteen minutes for the arrival of the bus. ‘Why not visit Mrs Tomalin,’ thought Robin. But then he retracted. ‘Maybe I will overstay and fail to board the bus. No, I would rather wait here.’ Just then he heard the crunch of fallen leaves on the road and, swinging around, he saw a young woman in a parrot-green sari approach him. ‘Maybe she too has come to catch the bus, who knows!’ thought Robin.
The girl came up closer, her green sari and red blouse seemed electrifying in the bright sun. Robin thought to himself, ‘This dark girl with chiselled features must surely be an Adivasi. I am certain I have seen her somewhere. Where? Surely not in Hong Kong!’ He almost laughed aloud at his own stupidity. Yet it was strange, thought he, that everything in McCluskieganj should appear familiar.
The girl too looked around and then decided to stand in the shade of a huge peepul tree whose leaves shimmered in the sunlight. The bus was late by more than ten minutes, thought Robin and just then he heard the rumble of an approaching ramshackle vehicle. To give further credence of its arrival, the driver honked and the horn sounded like the clamour of wild ducks. Robin was rather amused by the slow yet threatening noisy arrival of the bus. He stepped out on to the road from under the laburnum tree and so did the girl. As directed by Mr Miller, he put out his hand for the driver to see and rightly as expected, the old, discoloured bus slowed down and came to a screeching halt. The bus attendant, khalasi, jumped off the vehicle, but before that he thumped the side of the bus with a loud yell: Roko, stop! In an effort to gain on lost time, he urged the passengers to climb on fast. Both Robin and the girl were standing next to the steps. Perhaps the girl wanted Robin to have the right of way since he was first in line, but Robin motioned to her to go. No sooner had they mounted than the khalasi, a twenty-four or twenty-five-year-old bird-like, beady-eyed young man, once again took his position next to the door. Again he thumped on the side of the bus, which was Robin realized a signal for the driver to start. Such a singular method of signalling, he thought.
The ladies seats were practically full, there was just enough place, a trifle tight perhaps, for the Adivasi girl. Robin himself was directed to the one seat that was left behind the driver. It was not a comfortable seat at all, but being adjacent to the window, he found it cool considering the speed at which the day was warming up. Slowly, he noticed some of the extremely funny instructions and notices printed all around the bus. ‘DO NOT SPEAK TO THE DRIVER WHILE THE BUS IS IN MOTION.’
How strange that this journey to Ranchi should be spent in utter silence whereas, while coming to McCluskieganj, the driver had told Robin so many interesting things about people, places and so on. While getting on the bus, Robin had read warnings: ‘BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS, GUARD YOUR OWN PERSONAL THINGS, SMOKING IS PROHIBITED.’ Next to the ladies seats, Robin saw strange cartoon-like illustrations of women, perhaps supposed to indicate that these seats were for women. ‘Poor illiterate ladies!’ thought Robin. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Robin hesitantly, ‘art did precede articulation.’ Then he noticed, that just above the windshield there was a picture of a Hindu god with locks on whom hung a paper garland with a caption below—Jai Bholenath. Outside, the heat was searing hotter perhaps than the day he had arrived. Inside the bus, the conductor got busy collecting the fares from the passengers. He motioned to Robin and Robin gave him ten rupees. Surprisingly, the conductor returned him two rupees instead of the four that Robin had expected. Robin paused a little and then summoning courage asked if the fare had gone up. The conductor replied, ‘It’s been two months. Where were you? Look how the prices of petrol and diesel have gone up.’ The conductor had obviously felt affronted. He continued grumbling, ‘These Anglo-Indians from McCluskieganj visit Ranchi once in three months and then ask such profound questions.’ Then the bus entered Ranchi. Robin caught sight of some of the landmarks. There was definitely more traffic all around than there had been the last time. The bus had slowed down on entering the town and although the passengers had been quite patient until then, suddenly their restlessness grew. Neither the bus driver nor the conductor had given any signal for the passengers to get off, but they were already arranging themselves and their bags. Robin could not help smiling. He had noticed this while on his flight to Ranchi as well, that although the seat belt sign was on and the aircraft was still taxiing on the tarmac, the passengers were ready to deboard with their hand baggage. There seemed a sudden impatience to get off. Then the bus entered the stand located on Ratu road and parked itself in its allotted bay. Although many buses were parked over there, there wasn’t much activity.
Robin noticed the girl in the parrot-green sari. She was standing in line to disembark. Her plaited hair swung a little as she got down with unhurried steps. Then Robin too moved as his line progressed. He remembered the advice that
Mr Mendez had given him. ‘There are innumerable STD and ISD booths near Firaya Lal Chowk. They will connect you to Hong Kong instantly. However, should you have any problem, just go to the telephone exchange.’
Outside the bus station, several rickshaws had lined up to take the passengers to their various destinations. Robin noticed that these rickshaw pullers had stretched themselves out on the passenger’s seat and, with their legs up on the puller’s seat, were quietly puffing at bidis. Seeing Robin, they straightened themselves, hoping that the foreigner would hire one of them. One of them got off and asked Robin, ‘Where?’ Robin was pleased as a punch and said, ‘Very good’, then in Hindi, he continued, ‘Take me to Firaya Lal Chowk near the statue of Albert Ekka.’ The rickshaw puller was baffled by his flawless Hindi. Robin had by this time perfected this gimmick. It had worked beautifully with the drivers at Ranchi airport. It worked here again at the bus station. Then other rickshaw pullers were as if stricken with disbelief. Robin asked the rickshaw puller, ‘This is the most relaxed means of transport, isn’t it?’ The rickshaw puller agreed wholeheartedly, ‘Yes, sir. No diesel, petrol, it is our body that provides the fuel, therefore it’s pollution free! In Calcutta, the pullers or drivers run with their rickshaws, they become like horses. Their hearts seem to burst with strain, and in one hand, they have a bell to signal their arrival. I too had been a driver of rickshaws in Calcutta, but I ran away from the strain. There are many such drivers from Bihar.’ Robin liked the use of the word ‘driver’, it seemed to lend a sense of self-esteem to the man. Then the rickshaw puller asked, ‘Do you belong to Ranchi, sir?’ And Robin answered, ‘No, I have only arrived a few days ago.’ ‘Why, sir, why do you fool me, sir? You speak Hindi so well and know all the areas. I have ferried many foreigners, but none have been as well-spoken as you.’
By then they had arrived at the Chowk. Robin asked how much he should pay. The rickshaw puller said that he normally asked for anything between forty and fifty rupees for this short distance from foreigners, but for him, who spoke Hindi so well, he couldn’t do that. ‘You give me whatever you wish, sir. Perhaps four rupees would suffice.’ Robin was touched. He paid him ten rupees and thought of the far-reaching connection that language provided. ‘Language binds people in a unique way,’ mused Robin. The rickshaw puller assumed an expectant look, as if to say, ‘Should I wait?’ But Robin, realizing this, said that he may take long to finish his work, so he should go on with other passengers.
Robin did not have to search for the telephone booth. There was a long queue in front of it. But gauging from Robin that he probably had to make an overseas call, the phone booth operator approached him with alacrity. Determined to impress Robin with his smattering of English, he asked, ‘Where do you have to call?’ Robin answered in perfect Hindi, ‘I have to call Hong Kong.’ The mouths of not only the booth operator, but the others present almost fell open in wonder. ‘An Englishman with such good Hindi!’ The booth operator offered Robin the chance to complete his call first, but Robin preferred to be in line and await his turn. It mattered little if he had to wait, after all the others too had been waiting. All this was again said in Hindi and once again Robin impressed those present. Robin sat on a plastic chair and couldn’t help reflect on the strength of the spoken word. A pleasant exchange of words in any language could take people so far, communication was such a big step towards helping people bond!
Then came Robin’s turn. The phone connected immediately. Robin was profuse in his apologies to his mother and told her how he had got caught up in the new scenario. Liza said, ‘You can’t imagine how your father and I have spent the last forty-eight hours. Your Papa is in the press. Do call and speak to him.’ Then she continued to express her concerns regarding Robin’s stay and meals. ‘There must be a lot of mosquitoes, don’t forget to use a net.’ And Robin answered, ‘I have not forgotten any of your instructions.’ ‘Fat lot,’ his mother answered, ‘if you had remembered my instructions, you would have called from Ranchi the moment you landed there! Your friends too have been making inquiries about you. You have gone so far away, that is why we are worried. Call up every eight to ten days and try to come back soon.’ After this, Robin hung up and asked the operator to connect him once more, this time to his father’s press. Dennis was delighted to hear his son’s voice. ‘Call your mother first, Robin. She is sick with worry,’ and Robin answered, ‘I am calling you after speaking to her.’ Robin laughed and said, ‘Mummy said exactly the same thing, that you are sick with worry. You see Papa, one gets a little disoriented in a new place and it takes some time to find your bearings again.’ Then Dennis gave Robin the low-down on the latest developments on Hong Kong’s politics. Chris Patton had demanded that before the handing over in 1997, the democratic system that existed there ought to be strengthened so that the communist regime of China would not pull down the existing political fabric of Hong Kong. As a result, communist China was coming down with a heavy hand on the incumbent British secretary, Douglas Herd. Before Robin put the phone down, Dennis said, ‘Don’t hesitate to ask for money should you require it. And all the best, son.’
Robin put down the receiver and asked for the bill. Surprisingly, it was very reasonable. He thanked the operator profusely and sauntered away, thinking that he would make all his future calls from the same booth.
Robin looked at his watch, it was getting on to 2.15 p.m. Miller Uncle had told him that the return bus from Ranchi left at 3.30 p.m. Jack had fed him such a hearty breakfast that he did not feel the need for lunch. But he noticed several kiosks selling cold drinks. The vendor of the one that Robin approached was dozing. The heat of the afternoon was at its peak. The vendor started as Robin addressed him. Then taking his cold drink in hand, Robin wondered whether he should engage a rickshaw to the bus stand. But he would rather walk because anyway the heat would be about the same. So paying for his cold drink, he began to walk. Walking always enabled one to get to know a place. He wondered about the bad roads, the innumerable potholes, and thought of what his father had said about Ranchi being Bihar’s summer capital. Such a sweet little name, but nothing by way of development. It took him some time to find his way to the bus station after a few inquiries. He entered the bus. The bus would depart in about ten minutes. He thought about what Ranchi meant once again, and just then, he saw the Adivasi girl in the parrot-green sari and red blouse. She cast a glance at the passengers and saw him seated.