I recently took what I think will be my last trip to Hosur (the town closest to Shanti Bhavan School). And I realized how much I am going to miss the rickety old bus that takes me from just outside SB gates one hour to Hosur.
A 12th grader shared with me that her mother may have had a miscarriage as an indirect or direct result of riding a rural Indian bus. I now know just what she means. There are numerous times when the bus hits one of the hundreds of giant pot holes and my entire bottom leaves the seat for a moment hanging in mid air. It is a crowded, hot, dusty and dirty ride. The buses are either green or bright orange and appear to be built in the early 1970s. As much as we ramble along it amazes me how we never break down. Though in all this I also feel excited, even invigorated by our bus rides to Hosur.
There is the bus conductor who collects fares and distributes the tickets. Though I do not know his name, everyone else riding the bus seems to. He jokes and cajoles with the regulars in Tamil. I don't know what he says but it's obvious he loves his job. He has a whistle blown to signal the driver to a jerking stop for a new passenger. He seems to have a soft spot for old women who board the bus, as these are the only passengers he will help up the steep steps of the tenuous clamoring bus. He gently lifts them up and helps them find a seat among the colorful crowd. He is cheeky and playful with the school children. But my favorite quality about our conductor is the fluid grace he maintains while riding this bronco of a bus. He has mastered the art of balance; no hands while exchanging rupees for small red, blue, purple or yellow tickets. He holds rupee notes folded once lengthwise like a fan through the able fingers of one hand to make easy change. With an old worn leather satchel strapped across his body for the coins he collects, he looks like a trolley conductor of a time passed.
School children board the bus in the afternoon. Girls' hair plaited then pinned up to make two ovals of silky ebony braids just behind either ear. Each time these small knobby-legged students come face to face with Shanti Bhavan volunteers, we are met with wide-eyed stares of wonder and curiosity that then give way to shy smiles. Laura takes out an iPod, which causes the children to poke each other and stare with delight at the device-- so completely out of place in this rural setting, yet the children know what it is and how lucky Laura is to have it.
The women on the bus are regally beautiful with single long oiled plaits down their backs. Each woman's hair may have fragrant orange or white flowers in a string decorating the braid. Silty yellow gold is normal everyday jewelry-- nose rings, earrings, bracelets and anklets. Small children on the women's laps have bangles on their ankles and most have ears pierced. Each very small child has a dark smudge on his or her face. I am told this is because young children are so pretty and cute they must wear a blemish since it is boastful to be too attractive. Long and lean women wear saris of vibrant rich color in floral or geometric trim. The shape of this garmet so perfectly emphasizes the flowing line and curve of the feminine body. The women who spot SB volunteers aware their friends beside them and smile. The smell of soap and sandalwood fills the bus air and mixes with the sweet earthy smell of cows and hay.
Though most on the bus are barefoot, women's feet are adorned with gold while the male agricultural workers' feet are dry and caked with white-grey dust from the nearby quarry. There are two types of men that ride this bus. One is a western trouser, short sleeve button-up shirt business man, who works at one of the small businesses on the way to Hosur. They have somewhat shabby wear but are marked to all by their cell phones, from which they play Bollywood music. The other sort of man has sun-dried and wrinkled skin with grey hair from age, stone breaking or calcium deficiency. These men wear doti, a piece of fabric worn on the bottom half of the body, with a simple shirt and a towel over the shoulder. They work in the fields, quarries and brick yards. Sometimes they have small pieces of whatever crop they were harvesting in their disheveled hair. Always the look of exhaustion and resolve present on their faces. Accustomed to standing; being shoved and crowded in, bumped and swayed; with gaze toward sunburst fields rushing by, they allow their bodies to be moved.
A 12th grader shared with me that her mother may have had a miscarriage as an indirect or direct result of riding a rural Indian bus. I now know just what she means. There are numerous times when the bus hits one of the hundreds of giant pot holes and my entire bottom leaves the seat for a moment hanging in mid air. It is a crowded, hot, dusty and dirty ride. The buses are either green or bright orange and appear to be built in the early 1970s. As much as we ramble along it amazes me how we never break down. Though in all this I also feel excited, even invigorated by our bus rides to Hosur.
There is the bus conductor who collects fares and distributes the tickets. Though I do not know his name, everyone else riding the bus seems to. He jokes and cajoles with the regulars in Tamil. I don't know what he says but it's obvious he loves his job. He has a whistle blown to signal the driver to a jerking stop for a new passenger. He seems to have a soft spot for old women who board the bus, as these are the only passengers he will help up the steep steps of the tenuous clamoring bus. He gently lifts them up and helps them find a seat among the colorful crowd. He is cheeky and playful with the school children. But my favorite quality about our conductor is the fluid grace he maintains while riding this bronco of a bus. He has mastered the art of balance; no hands while exchanging rupees for small red, blue, purple or yellow tickets. He holds rupee notes folded once lengthwise like a fan through the able fingers of one hand to make easy change. With an old worn leather satchel strapped across his body for the coins he collects, he looks like a trolley conductor of a time passed.
School children board the bus in the afternoon. Girls' hair plaited then pinned up to make two ovals of silky ebony braids just behind either ear. Each time these small knobby-legged students come face to face with Shanti Bhavan volunteers, we are met with wide-eyed stares of wonder and curiosity that then give way to shy smiles. Laura takes out an iPod, which causes the children to poke each other and stare with delight at the device-- so completely out of place in this rural setting, yet the children know what it is and how lucky Laura is to have it.
The women on the bus are regally beautiful with single long oiled plaits down their backs. Each woman's hair may have fragrant orange or white flowers in a string decorating the braid. Silty yellow gold is normal everyday jewelry-- nose rings, earrings, bracelets and anklets. Small children on the women's laps have bangles on their ankles and most have ears pierced. Each very small child has a dark smudge on his or her face. I am told this is because young children are so pretty and cute they must wear a blemish since it is boastful to be too attractive. Long and lean women wear saris of vibrant rich color in floral or geometric trim. The shape of this garmet so perfectly emphasizes the flowing line and curve of the feminine body. The women who spot SB volunteers aware their friends beside them and smile. The smell of soap and sandalwood fills the bus air and mixes with the sweet earthy smell of cows and hay.
Though most on the bus are barefoot, women's feet are adorned with gold while the male agricultural workers' feet are dry and caked with white-grey dust from the nearby quarry. There are two types of men that ride this bus. One is a western trouser, short sleeve button-up shirt business man, who works at one of the small businesses on the way to Hosur. They have somewhat shabby wear but are marked to all by their cell phones, from which they play Bollywood music. The other sort of man has sun-dried and wrinkled skin with grey hair from age, stone breaking or calcium deficiency. These men wear doti, a piece of fabric worn on the bottom half of the body, with a simple shirt and a towel over the shoulder. They work in the fields, quarries and brick yards. Sometimes they have small pieces of whatever crop they were harvesting in their disheveled hair. Always the look of exhaustion and resolve present on their faces. Accustomed to standing; being shoved and crowded in, bumped and swayed; with gaze toward sunburst fields rushing by, they allow their bodies to be moved.
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