Travelling travails in an Incredible !ndia.

Hanging on to dear life; journey in a traditional tempo.

It was just a couple of weeks ago that I had to go to Bawal, a neighbouring block, for an RTI camp. Between Rewari and Bawal, there is a state two lane highway, that is lined with trees and often breaks towards small villages in the distance. A typical Haryana state highway is just like the veins of a leaf. One straight road, that has multiple smaller roads shooting from it in the opposite directions. And while I call it a two laned highway, it is only equivalent in width to one half of Delhi's Barakhamba Road or Bengaluru's MG road or Chennai's Nungambakkam High Road.

While going for the camp, I justtt managed to hop on the last step of the bus and it got moving. The nick-of-time boarding was not due to my running late, it was due to the crowd.

I managed to reach the doors of the bus quite ahead of other passengers. Seeing the older people and women carrying luggage scrambling after me, I gave way to them first. However, a large number of other men too pushed forth and managed to hop on before I did. As I amusedly looked on, the conductor's shrill whistle shook me out of my thoughts and I stepped on to the footboard. The bus chugged forward. I weaved my way through the standing crowd and managed to plant myself right at the entrance, but at least well within the roof of the bus and on the aisle.

The immediate crowd around me was a mother standing with her baby in her arms, a milkman who stubbornly refused to move his cans from the way and two men, one with a backpack and the other with a basket of plastic wares. My standing position could have easily been registered as a feat of yoga where I on a mat and breathing slowly in solitude. Body twisted at odd angles, one hand was reaching out towards the nearest bar for support, while the other was clutching on dearly the jhola that had my diary, my cellphone, my wallet, my all. After some heated exchange in Haryanvi between a lady who was seated and a college student in the front, the latter offered his seat to the standing new mother.  Noticing my plight, several other comfortable passengers asked the milkman to make way for me so that I could seat myself on the cushioned gear and engine space at the front. Phew! After completing a 2 metre hurdle race, I got myself firmly plonked on top of the rumbling gear box. My grin of relief was immediately washed away by the bristling driver who asked me to duck the whole while not to impend the side-view. The remaining 30 minutes of the drive was an amazing people-watching experience, though my vision was from only the waist level. (More on that, later)

After the camp was over, one of my co-workers offered a ride on his bike till Rewari. There was another co-worker too who had to take a bus from Rewari. "Ajjest karlenge", they said.  So we made a cautious triple-seater journey on the way back. The bumpy highway made for excellent moments of thrill, just as the passing trees and birds gave an authentic "Incredible !ndia" feel. It was like the popularised Swades still where an America-return Shah Rukh Khan was sharing pillion space with Makarand Deshpande as they criss-crossed an arid landscape on another villager's bike. This is also a still that has been popularised in the latest Incredible !ndia tourism  ad. A single foreign woman is seen riding pillion with two other villagers pointing to this and that on the way. 

It was nearly 5.30 pm when I had to take a tempo from Rewari to Khori, my village. If my day's travelling experience was anything to go by, I should have seen what was to come next. Winter being the season, everything winds down with the setting of the sun. I could see the sun very well edging towards the end of the Western horizon, it was nightfall beginning. I had missed the 5.15pm bus to the village and the only option was to get back in the tempo. The tempo that was almost ready to go had two spots vacant- one besides the driver and the other to sit on haunch heels at the back. Not a woman on the vehicle, the driver was considerate enough to offer me the seat beside him. "Ah, luxury!", I thought looking at the space crunch behind me. 15 men squeezed together in the space meant for ten. Just as the motor revved, a harried man came along and asked if the tempo was headed towards Khori. Immediately the driver saw his opportunity to gain the extra eight bucks and asked me to step aside for a moment. The harried man immediately sat where I was earlier seated and I looked on confused. The driver adjusted himself a bit, the new entrant shifted a little more and I was pointed  the corner of the seat. And very soon the machinations in my head began working, debating if I had to really take this ride or if I could afford to wait for the next one, by when it would surely be dark? I hopped on again, firmly clutching on to the sides of the vehicle. I was seated parallel to the side rear-view mirror, one half of me nearly swinging outside the frame of the tempo.  The journey started, the night started, my prayers started. The twenty five minute ride seemed like an eternity and I just wanted to make it back to my room safe.

The road was just as bumpy and dusty. My overworking head was hallucinating the piercing glares of the men behind my back. Just as the Khori bus-stop came close, I asked the driver if this was the final stop or if he would be taking passengers into the village (atleast one km away) too? The adda, was to be the final point he said, however he was willing to drop me off at the railway crossing further ahead. And true to his word, he dropped me, and only me, closer to the village and waved me off with a smile. On the other side of the track was the road leading to the village and I just had to beat the 200m quick. That I did. As I crashed into my room with relief and exhaustion I chided myself for not trusting my fellow passengers. In retrospect, I see this cynicism towards humanity, a suspicion of people's motives, something that is largely a part of an urban upbringing. The rural people are so generous and unassuming, I wonder why their city counterparts are burdened by nagging doubts every waking moment of the day. Some, even in their sleep.

Double decker buses are passe. Even the modern tempos support a first floor.

Just the week before that I was on a two-day trip to the Braj-bhoomi. Backpacking and wandering through the winding streets of Mathura, Vrindavan, Gokul and Goverdhan over the two days of Diwali, I experienced both the highs and lows of being a single girl travelling alone. Not that anybody made any untoward advances, but one had to be on high-alert the whole while. Just as much as kind  the rickshaw and chai-wallahs helped me plan and spend a good two days milling with the festive crowd, I was also the subject of many furtive glances, subtle leers and lecherous looks.  And this finally brings me to the point of this post. The new Incredible !ndia ad.

The ad shows a single woman travelling alone and experience the "real" incredible !ndia. Sleeping in Rajasthan's royal bed chambers, frightened by the same people's kadak moustaches, sneezing across a courtyard where women are sorting red chillies, etc. True just not Taj Mahal and Qutab Minar and Kerala's ayurvedic spas make India incredible. These- triple rides on bikes, space crunches in the public transport vehicles, a benevolent chai-wallah guiding you, and India's every readiness to welcome and treat a guest with reverence- make it incredible. But a single foreign woman. Alone. Really?

Even after making ample contacts and knowing the local language, my travel experiences have not been devoid of stress and caution. Be it in Chennai's residential streets, Delhi's wide campus lanes or Haryana's bumpy two-lane highway, one eye had to always be on the lookout, a hand ready to deal with any untoward incident and a voice ready to shout for help.  The famed night life and secure environment for women in Mumbai was witness to molestations two New Years ago. To drop all worries and meditate in Benares, might be all picturesque and alluring. What the viewer might not register is that a cameraperson is at least company to the woman in the shoot. How easy and possible is it for a woman to travel alone in a land completely unknown? Devoid of local contacts and knowledge of local language is it possible that India can seem just as incredible? This could be any country in the world for that matter. Trust issues aside, logistics aside, that one final question for the day remains.

It is difficult, but not impossible. Even liberal Indian parents think twice before sending out their daughters on such a journey. The question is out of place for a village girl who has not even been to the town market sans any company. The frills and thrills of incredible India is definitely not for the lonely traveller, especially female. We easily discount in the discourse the incredulous India. This package promises lechers, leers, ill-intended jostling in the crowds, flashing and a obscene commentary. These are true personal accounts from my own experiences and friends'. There must be a constant broadcast to the near and the dear updating of one's location, place of stay (and new company, if any found) and next place-to-be. The no-baggage, no-worries woman traveller is unknown in India, yet. When that day comes, I would volunteer to shoot the incredible !ndia tourism ad myself.