A Boor

Telugu: KNY Patanjali

KNY Patanjali, a reputed journalist, editor, and short story writer of yesteryears.]

*

His age is twice divisible with mine. And so is the size of his body. It could commensurately accommodate two people of my size. Should he be a farmer, there’s enough of farmyard manure available on his body for his fields.

But the man lacked common sense. That much for sure. Else, when I had asked him politely, “Do you mind  exchanging our seats?” would he bluntly refuse saying, “No. I won’t. I have to smoke cigars.”

“I shouldn’t let him smoke a cigar at any cost,” I decided then itself.

The passenger bus had slowly picked up speed. To the currents of air, perhaps, his head tossed gently…  a dirty, greasy head.

His ears are almost as wide as my palm. Two scooter-wheel- size earrings are hanging to his earlobes. The red and white stones on them collected a lot of dirt.

Of what use is having other nice things when one lacks common sense?

A lingering headache started since I got up from bed this morning. Awful headache! Unlike a Telugu movie flopped at box-office, this headache did not leave me immediately. Dirty headache! Like an idle wife who had nothing else to do, and like an ever-busy friend always on the move, it visited me first thing in the morning the moment I set foot on the floor after waking up.

I looked at Naidu[1] again. He blissfully lost himself watching the fleeting trees and the green landscape through the window! Evil-eyed fellow! His looks were enough  for them to perish instantly!

He made no move to smoke a cigar. I was eager to take revenge by raising an objection, first in English and then in Telugu, no sooner than he had alit his cigar. But it seems I was not destined for that consolation for today.

If I had had that window seat, I could have taken a nap leaning my head over one hand resting on the front seat and holding the iron bars with the other. More so,  in times when one was suffering from a splitting headache as now.

I was curious to know where this citizen of the soul of India would get down and let me have the luxury of that window seat. When I asked him the same, he looked at me inquiringly and replied, “Sodaram (Chodavaram)”

My god! He would not leave me till the end of my journey!

“Where are you going up to?” Naidu enquired me in turn.

I turned to my left. A gentleman in his thirties wearing a terylene shirt was reading a weekly folding it into half.

“Where are you going up to ?” Naidu repeated his question.

“West Germany,” I said in an undertone.

Naidu did not get it.

“Where is that?”  he asked in bewilderment.

“It’s beyond Sodaram,” I replied.

“But the bus terminates at Sodaram. It will not go further,” Naidu laughed coarsely.

“It is walkable from there,” I said venting my repulsion. He shut up his mouth with that.

The bus has stopped at Chinnapuram junction.

Two or three people got down and another six or seven people got in. Inadvertently, I was doing a Checker’s job of counting how many people got down the bus and how many got into.

The headache did not cease. On the contrary, it was rising by the hour. I was getting restless. Is ‘engrossment’ for geniuses and ‘crossness’ for would-be-geniuses like me, an inevitable trait? Who knows!

How about asking the left-side passenger the weekly? I could return it after just glancing through it. Let me try.

“If you don’t mind, can you spare me your weekly for a moment?” I asked.

“No.” He replied bluntly.

Oh, so cruel! A heartless man! Fit to be the principal of a non-coeducation college. This Naidu to my right is far better than him. If I had asked for a cigar he would have offered it to me readily without hesitation. Why only cigar? He would have even offered me the towel over his shoulder.

Of Course! He would offer me everything but the window seat I desperately needed.

Will the next-seat magazine-owner tell me the time if I ask him now? He may not. Who is so intelligent to predict the kind of response from such a vile person?

One should never ask for time, weekly or a loan from such people; and shouldn’t ask cigar, seat, or any information from people like Naidu.

Without having to ask him for the time, I got to know it rather easily. When he held his hand down, I read the time on his wristwatch.

It was One O’ clock.

Like a man lost his shoes in a marriage, the sun was blazing intemperately hot.

There is another three hours’ time to reach Chodavaram. Three long hours!!!  He has to kill three hours hemmed between these two cruel people… and with this splitting headache.

One could sit tight in an examination hall without spoiling the whiteness of the  paper. One could even watch a Telugu drama or movie without shuffling in his seat. But, wedged between these two people…???

I got into the bus taking an early lunch. Because of my accursed fate I was caught between these two. I could have moved into another seat. Neither the government, nor the conductor and other passengers would have objected to it. But, to my misfortune, there is no other seat vacant in the bus.

The bus is dragging at a snail’s pace stopping wherever possible. But my headache is on the increase.

You cannot justify why but you feel irritated looking at some men. You even feel like murdering them. Accepting that prejudice, my neighbours make no difference between the two choices. However, this annoyance and impatience against people is largely limited to men. Surprisingly, no girl irritates you. Instead,  one feels pleasant and elated. That’s the magic.

The bus is crawling slowly. The wind, blowing reluctantly, could not get past Naidu to reach me. It only adds to my irritable and annoying disposition.

Leaning over the front seat, I rested my head on my hands. I could see the dirt-coated Naidu’s giant feet wearing tyre-chappals. Tucked under his seat, and behind his legs, there was a mica mag.

I closed my eyes.

As soon as I closed my eyes, I got a feeling that my head was reeling. So I wide opened my eyes and was watching things looking down.

Naidu bent down and pulled out the mica bag. There were ground nut pods. He took out two handfuls and pushed the bag behind with his legs.

With his blunt fingers, deigned for only farm labour and forestry, he started break-opening the pods which made a chituk… chituk … popping sound.

The chituk, chituk sound of the breaking pods and the crunching sound of the nuts had become sharp and insufferable over time.

As the bus moved further ahead, my patience has receded.

‘Chituk… Chituk…’ was hammering not only my brain and on my ears but also my endurance. It was just intolerable. My left side passenger with his principal-like looks, seemed oblivious of all this.

Hopeless people! They seldom understand the sufferings of fellow beings. A film producer does not understand the suffering of his audience. A writer rarely understands the agony of his readers. A bus conductor is seldom bothered about the travails of the passengers. The composure of the results is immune to the mental suffering of the students searching for their number.

Horrible! For sophisticated people, like me, it’s a veritable hell to travel on these mofussil routes. To be honest, no Tom, Dick, and Harry should be allowed to get into the bus. Even if allowed, there should be a strict ruling enforced against people nibbling at every dirty bite. Violators should be offloaded in the middle of their journey, confiscating all the money at their disposal.

If I were endowed with supreme authority for just one day, I would issue a decree for execution all uncultured people summarily, beginning with Naidu. Of course, I might include under the same order people I dislike… like some principals, lecturers, some short story writers, people from filmdom, and some heartless parents of lovely dames. I might be able to do all other things but could never stop this Naidu from making that munching sound.

The headache is gnawing at my head. Naidu relentlessly continued his popping and munching. The watch, not mine or on my wrist but on the principal-looking guy, is tick-ticking.

The bus has stopped at Kothavalasa.

The principal got down and a bell-bottomed student occupied his seat. The boy was lean but looked decent, delicate, and fair. He greeted me with an agreeable smile.

Naidu bought some Jantikas (a home-made snack) and had a glass of buttermilk. … very indecent and unhygienic. Hugh! Taking a bite at every dirty food and taking every dirty drink sold by the vendors! Our society has not outgrown its primitive urge for eating!!!

Any number of people had got down … but not my headache.

The bus resumed its journey.

Now, to the enduring headache and the dirty grating sound of jantikas, joined the nauseating feeling in my stomach with saliva gradually oozing up in my mouth.

The new passenger, the boy sitting next to me, appeared nice and cultured. With a broad friendly and cheerful grin, he offered me some crumbs of nut powder. Much like the editor of a popular magazine who picks up only one from among the countless submissions for publication, I selected only one crumb for courtesy sake.

I had an urge to engage in a friendly chat with such a good-looking boy, but I did not have the physical strength to do so.

The bus was winding along the country roads. The nauseating feeling reached its climax. I should not have taken my lunch before getting into the bus.

Oh my! No use. I am afraid that I cannot control it anymore. I may throw up…

And I did… with full force.

The undigested food loathsomely spilled over my boots and over those dirt-collected feet of Naidu.

Sure, Naidu will see my end today. He will not spare me for sure!

“Oh, boy…” cried Naidu.

He would kick me anytime now.

“Yukky…” the student sitting next to me got up from his seat in a hurry.

I felt embarrassed.

“What a nasty thing you did? If you had asked me I would have stopped the vehicle. You spoiled the entire floor,” cursed the conductor expressing his disgust.

I was fainting.

My heart was beating fast.

I was losing control over myself.

My head dashed against the front seat.

“Oh, poor boy…”

That was Naidu’s voice for sure.

The last memories before I lost consciousness were … ‘the very hands I thought deigned for farm labour and forestry, held my head in compassion and rested it in his dirty lap; those very dirty hands caressed my burning forehead and closed my eyes gently. I was sure they … were … the hands of the greasy-headed Naidu.’

***

Original:  ‘Motu Manishi’  (Andhra Prabha Weekly 11.7.1973)

[1] A connotative for farmer on the countryside.