What a Beautiful Journey!- Deepali Charegaonkar

Travel was once a primal necessity for humankind. The same evolutionary instinct that drove early humans to wander in search of food still propels us today. While the quest for sustenance remains, our reasons for wandering have multiplied. Travel is etched into our very being. We are constantly on the move—sometimes by compulsion, sometimes for pleasure; sometimes for duty, and at other times with cherished company to a desired destination. We travel for our daily bread, and sometimes, just as a matter of routine. There is no alternative to the journey. Despite the grim news of horrific highway accidents, the recent plane crash in Ahmedabad, or the ghastly local and long-distance train mishaps, travel never stops. It simply goes on. This act of travelling introduces us to diverse regions and gives us the chance to observe people, to mingle effortlessly with strangers. It is perhaps this experience that birthed the adage, "Travel maketh a man wise." Today, we have a plethora of options for our journeys: luxurious cars, aeroplanes, cruises, bullet trains, and air-conditioned coaches. Yet, for an experience that allows you to immerse yourself among ordinary people, truly, there is no substitute for the State Transport (S.T.) bus. The difference is akin to experiencing a meticulously crafted botanical or tulip garden versus finding joy in the wild grass and flowers of an open meadow. The latter is what a journey in a humble government S.T. bus offers, compared to the sterile comfort of modern vehicles. A journey I took many years ago remains as fresh and vivid in my memory as if it were yesterday. Four friends and I had travelled from Satara to Solapur for a performance. It was the peak of May, and the heat was immense. Solapur's sweltering climate, in particular, is unbearable, making an air-conditioned car a necessity. Our journey from Satara, which began at 4:00 a.m., was filled with laughter and joy. The program went splendidly as well. However, I had to stay behind in Solapur to visit relatives, while my friends continued onward in the car. The next day, after enjoying the hospitality of my relatives, I arrived at the Solapur S.T. stand in the blazing midday sun. Within 15-20 minutes, the bus to Satara pulled in. By then, I was already feeling overwhelmed. The bus was nearly empty, so I easily found a window seat—a small victory that brought me immense relief. The prospect of a midday journey from Solapur to Satara in the peak of summer, all alone, felt daunting. When I say "alone," I don't mean the anxieties of a woman travelling solo, but rather the boredom of having no one to talk to. In those days, mobile phones were not ubiquitous, and WhatsApp was a thing of the future. The window seat was my only solace. There was nothing scenic to behold outside. All I could witness were the shimmering illusions created by the scorching midday sun. I wanted to determine if the sun was "scorching" or "searing," but I lacked the courage to meet its gaze. Resigned, I began observing the goings-on at the bus stand. A melodic blend of Marathi, Kannada, and Telugu languages drifted to my ears. What stood out most were the striking, dark-complexioned women dressed in deep-hued Irkal sarees. Their foreheads were marked with stripes of vibhuti (sacred ash), and their noses adorned with large, sparkling studs. Alongside them were village men in dhotis, shirts, and white or pink turbans, all bustling about in the intense heat. Passengers began to board, one by one. Suddenly, a hefty young woman in jeans and a t-shirt, a massive sack on her back, approached me. I shifted closer to the window. "That's my seat... I have a reservation," she said, showing me her ticket. With extreme reluctance, I surrendered my window seat. She tossed her sack onto the overhead rack and, with a sigh of relief, plopped down, occupying two-thirds of the seat. I had to squeeze myself into the corner. The midday Solapur sun was now at its fiercest, turning the S.T. bus into a pressure cooker. The bus was almost full, yet the conductor kept ringing the bell, hoping to attract one last passenger. "Master... start the bus! It's well past time!" someone yelled, unable to bear the heat. The conductor, however, waited until two more passengers had boarded before finally giving the signal to depart. Having lost my window seat, I turned my attention to the bus's interior—its people. Just as the language changes every twelve (a measure of distance), so do the landscape, lifestyle, food habits, and attire. One can often guess a person's region from their facial features. On the bench to my right sat a middle-aged, ordinary-looking couple. The woman, around 50-55, had a sturdy build. Her skin was as dark as night, contrasted by a bright red saree and a green blouse. A large, crimson dot, the size of a rupee coin, adorned her forehead. A big, white-stoned stud sparkled in her nose, and her teeth were stained a deep red from chewing (betel leaf). Her husband, dressed in a simple white shirt, pyjama, and cap, had a medium build and a meek appearance. He sat by the window, a strategic position, I noted with my micro-observation, for spitting out tobacco juice. It was the woman who bought the tickets. Once the conductor moved on, she pulled a bag from near her feet. From it, she took out a wet towel and a pair of underpants and, without a hint of hesitation, hung them on the window bars to dry. I felt a wave of awkwardness witnessing this live advertisement for undergarments, but she was completely at ease, unbothered by the public space or the people around her. In truth, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. We watch far more revealing lingerie commercials on TV every day with our families, "bade aaram se" (quite comfortably). The bus was now speeding down the highway, and even the gusts of hot wind felt pleasant. The woman took out a lunchbox from another bag. She neatly served a meal for her husband on the lid of the box. I had a very close view of this entire affair because my hefty co-passenger had dozed off, sprawling out even more, forcing me further to the edge of my seat. Initially, I had mistaken her for a simple village woman. But the commanding tone in which she was berating her husband soon revealed another story. It appeared they ran some sort of business, and she was clearly the one in charge. Her husband had employed four men from their village who turned out to be lazy, deceitful frauds. They had committed some sort of scam, which she had astutely uncovered. Now, she was giving her husband an earful. "You are too naive... you have no judgment of character! The moment you hear 'people from our village,' you melt... If you can't handle it, you should just stay quiet... but no, you won't do that either. Instead of sitting quietly at the counter, who asked you to get involved in these useless affairs?" Even as she delivered this tirade, she would periodically pour water for him from a glass. The matter seemed to have reached the courts, because when he mumbled something about the lawyer's fees, she snapped back, "Why are you worrying about the lawyer's fees? and my children are more than capable... I'll teach those men a lesson they'll never forget for the rest of their lives!" She followed this declaration with a string of such colourful curses that, unable to block my ears, I simply squeezed my eyes shut. After her husband had finished his meal, she took out a small pouch from her waist. It contained all the paraphernalia for —betel leaves, lime, catechu, areca nuts, and tobacco. She skillfully prepared two perfect, cone-shaped and offered one to her husband with a grace that suggested, "Here you are, my love." She was, in all likelihood, more than a 50 per cent partner in their business. She managed her home and business with the prowess of a capable man. She probably knew nothing of modern concepts like gender equality, women's liberation, or feminism. She ran her business efficiently, handled its legal troubles herself, and, as a wife, served her husband with complete devotion, feeling no sense of inferiority in doing so. She was, in the truest sense, a liberated woman. I thought to myself that researchers studying the status of women in rural families ought to travel by S.T. bus at least once. After offering the to her husband and having a little something herself, she stuffed her own mouth with a large , and her booming voice fell silent. Peace descended. The bus had found a steady, rhythmic pace, and my eyes began to close on their own. "Naeem, stay here... Padinga... padinga... don't go forward!" A high-pitched voice startled me awake. The bus had stopped. We were likely in the town of Mohol. The first set of passengers was alighting as a new set boarded. It was this new group that was causing the commotion. Before I could see who was shouting, a 4-5-year-old boy stumbled from the entrance and tumbled all the way to the back. He was followed by a woman in a burqa carrying two large bags. Behind her came another boy, about 7-8 years old, and a plump, elderly woman. This Muslim family had boarded. The capable businesswoman and her meek husband had disembarked, and this new lady, 'Husnabano,' now took their seat. I gave her that name, assuming that women behind veils are exceptionally beautiful. The boy who had tumbled let out a loud, heart-wrenching wail. "Come here, Naeem... here... sit with Fuppi (auntie)..." Husnabano shrieked. Meanwhile, the other son had made a beeline for the driver's cabin and settled himself there. Naeem wanted to sit there too, which made him cry even louder. Just then, a vendor selling cool cucumbers appeared. Naeem started a new tantrum for a cucumber. No sooner had he finished the cucumber than a sugarcane juice seller arrived. Soon, the entire family, including Fuppi, was sipping on juice. The act of drinking juice gave me a chance to see Husnabano's face as she lifted her veil. There was no "face as radiant as the moon." She looked like any other ordinary woman, and I found myself wondering why she wore a burqa in this oppressive heat; the thought alone made me feel suffocated. I was watching to see which vendor would appear next when a new kind of salesman materialised, tapping on the roof of the bus. "Attention all passengers! Look here. We all have many questions. Questions like, Why is there a turtle in Hindu temples? Why do we offer Durva grass to Lord Ganesha, Bel leaves to Lord Shiva, and oil to Lord Shani? Why should one always keep a one-faced Rudraksha? You will find satisfactory answers to all these questions in our book. It will enhance your knowledge. If you were to buy this book in a shop, it would cost you twenty-five rupees, but today, we are offering it at a special price of just ten rupees. Read it yourself... give it to your children... only ten rupees..." He was moving through the bus, distributing the essence of Hindu Dharma for a mere ten rupees. Naeem's attention turned to the book. "Ammi... book..." "Be quiet! Or I'll slap you so hard I'll knock your teeth out... You devil's spawn!" Husnabano was thoroughly exasperated. "Oh, let him have it... Why make the child cry... here, take the money," Fuppi said, reaching for the knot in her saree where she kept her money. "What's he going to do with a book?" Husnabano snapped at Fuppi. Fuppi's logic was simple: when a child asks for something, you give it to him; you don't make him cry. But she had no idea how complex the book's subject was, and neither did Naeem. Poor Husnabano was caught in a moral dilemma. Just then, a new cry pierced the air: "Wafers... Chikki... Pepsi..." Before Naeem could say a word, Husnabano shouted, "Hey... Pepsi-seller, come here..." It was as if Allah himself had arrived in the form of a Pepsi vendor to rescue her from her predicament. "Tickets... tickets..." the conductor demanded. "Three half and one full to Koregaon," said Husnabano. "Who are the three halves?" the conductor asked. "This one, the boy sitting near the driver, and her senior citizen's half ticket..." "Where is the senior citizen's card? Show it," the conductor said. "Fuppi, you brought the card, didn't you? Show it to him..." Fuppi searched all her hidden pockets and then said in a heavy voice, "Oh dear, did I forget it? That rascal Naeem took it when we were leaving... where did he put it? I have no idea..." "Oh, Master... the card got left at home... the children created such a ruckus at the last minute that I lost my senses," Husnabano pleaded. "That's not my problem. If there's no card, you'll have to buy a full ticket." "Oh, don't be like that! Fuppi is a senior citizen... just look at her... she's an old woman," Husnabano implored from behind her veil. "Am I supposed to issue tickets based on faces? It's a good thing you haven't put her in a burqa too. What a headache! No card means a full ticket," the conductor said firmly. Grumbling, Husnabano paid for a full ticket. "And you... Are you also an S.C.? A senior citizen? Show me your card." "Here you go," said the senior citizen auntie, unfolding a plastic pouch with seventeen folds to present her card to the conductor. "Whose photo is this? Is it yours? I can't even recognise it." The conductor was losing his patience. "Oh, it got wet in the rain," the auntie explained. "Bravo! Only the photo got wet in the rain, but the card is perfectly fine. Seriously, Auntie... at least say something believable. This card could be used by all the women in your house," the conductor retorted. "Hey, we're not that foolish..." "I'm the one who's going to be foolish! Arguing with clever passengers like you turns my brain to mush. Next time, get a new card with a proper photo, or I'll confiscate this one right here," the conductor warned her. But he gave her the half ticket and let her off with a warning for now. The ticket transactions were over, and the conductor returned to his seat. Just then, someone offered him some peanuts, saying, "Master, have some peanuts... they are from our own farm." I was amused that everyone was calling the conductor 'Master.' His moving vehicle was a veritable 'Masti ki Pathshala' (School of Fun), speeding towards Satara. Its quirky students had finally quieted down. The midday journey from Satara to Solapur in the peak of summer... I had expected it to be dry and tedious. I never imagined it would turn out to be so thoroughly entertaining. There was no beautiful weather, no charming companion... and yet, I felt like humming, "Kitna hansi safar hai" (What a beautiful journey it is). It was a pleasant realisation that more than any natural scenery, I truly revel in the company of people. By Mrs. Deepali CharegaonkarSatara Phone: 9552954065 (This article is the translated version of the original article कितना हंसी सफर है।written byDeepali Charegaonkarpublished in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 ) https://youtu.be/QDTPOeDRMHs