The bus ride to Manali

Stopping by the highway for a refreshing drink of coconut water on a hot summer day, or a cup of tea no matter what the season; watching the lush, green paddy fields roll by, the miles disappearing as the road hungrily swallows village after village.  These are some of my fondest travel memories.

Picturesque Manali

To me, the journey sometimes supersedes the destination. In fact, there are times when I am almost disappointed to have arrived at the destination even before I can fully appreciate the feeling of absolute abandon that comes with road trips. Add some good music, throw in something to snack, and of course, great conversation, either with your fellow passengers or an interesting stranger who’ll be your companion through the journey and you have the perfect ingredients for a merry road trip.

Of course, there are those instances when you’re desperately counting the kilometers, waiting to get to your destination. Despite their unpleasant nature, these journeys are tucked away somewhere in your treasure trove of memories. Sometimes you recall them with a smile, and sometimes with a small shudder, glad to have put them behind you.

One such journey was when my husband and I took the awful bus ride to a picturesque hill station in the Himalayas, Manali.

The bus, a rather colorful, albeit a rickety piece of metal, came to a screeching halt at the bus station in Delhi. It was late by two hours, and the sweltering heat didn’t make the endless wait any easier.

I almost cried out in relief when I saw our bus, for it had ‘Luxury AC Comfort’ painted in bold, gaudy colors. Tossing the blood-soaked tissues that I’d used to stop my husband’s nose bleed, (courtesy, the heat) we handed the bags over to the guy, whom I assumed was the cleaner, help, and companion to the driver.

Greasy red and black seats that had embraced many a tired, eager bottom, awaited us.

“We did not sign up for this,” I whispered to my miserable husband, as he tentatively sat down, trying not to touch the greasy armrests.

“It’s doo lade for dat,” he responded, dabbing his reddening nose.

It was a full hour before the bus started, ferrying a motley bunch of paratha-munching aunties, a group of unwashed and glossy-eyed youngsters, fidgety families, the cleaner and of course, the driver, an absolute maniac with a morbid sense of humor.

The air conditioning did little to alleviate the heat, and soon the stench of sweat and unlaundered hosiery, mingled with the scent from all the food that was being passed around give off an unpleasant odor.

I almost gagged, trying to breathe through the handkerchief I was holding. If this was bad, the worst was yet to come.

A couple of harrowing hours later, the bus pulled up at a roadside dhaba. Muttering a prayer of thanks, we disembarked, stretching our cramped legs and taking deep breathes of fresh air. We were on the outskirts of Karnal, a city in Haryana. The night sky twinked brightly, and the aroma of the food improved my mood a little. I was hungry and couldn’t wait for my first-ever experience eating at an authentic North Indian dhaba. But first things first, I needed to use the bathroom.

“Bhaiyya (brother), where is the bathroom?” I asked the chap who was busy slapping the rotis inside a blazing tandoor.

He barely glanced my way as he pointed toward a dingy corner behind the kitchen. I took my husband along because I was terrified of what or who lay in wait for me in the darkness. The ‘bathroom’ comprised a rusty door that was coming off its hinges. I hesitated, but was reminded by my husband that my options were few.

My eyes took a couple of seconds to adjust to the zero-watt bulb that cast a miserable shadow inside the tin-shed. A small hole dug in the earth and a broken plastic pail, which probably was a can of paint in its last birth sat forlornly in the dim light. I realized with dismay that this was ‘ladiss bathroom’ as the sign hanging on the door proclaimed. It with either this or the fields that stretched along the highway. Imagining snakes and scorpions waiting for an unsuspecting victim, I wisely decided to give the fields a pass.

Following a harrowing visit to the ‘ladiss bathroom’, I joined my husband on the cheap plastic chairs and waited for someone to take our orders.

“How about we try the paneer makhni?” I enquired, looking expectantly at my husband.

“I suggest we stick with the basics. Just some dal and rotis should be a safe choice. Best avoid the other stuff” he responded.

I, however, was insistent on the paneer. “How can we come to an actual North Indian dhaba and not try the paneer?” I reasoned and proceeded to order. My wise spouse stuck to his plan and asked for dal with his rotis.

Let me tell you this...it was the best paneer I’d had so far. Large chunks of cottage cheese, slathered with butter and spices in a delectable tomato gravy, accompanied by piping hot rotis. I tucked in hungrily, while my husband dunked his share of rotis in the not-so-bad looking dal.

“At least the delicious meal was the saving grace on this bone-jarring bus ride,” I commented as we boarded the bus for the remainder of the journey. Little did I know that I’d need a lot of ‘saving’ from the paneer that would soon to do the cha-cha in my stomach.

The bus rumbled on, the video player blaring songs from a vague movie that played for the benefit of the drowsy passengers. The driver,  as if recharged by the meal, pressed the pedal hard, sending the vehicle into a tizzy, barely missing a couple of collisions en route. The passengers gasped between their naps and packs of potato crisps, drifting back into their state of inertia, while the driver continued his murder-suicide mission.

My stomach, in the meanwhile, sent the first signs of distress as I felt the start of tiny, painful pricks. We still had a couple of hours to go, and I prayed as I’ve never prayed before that I wouldn't have to use another one of the ‘ladiss’ bathrooms again. I tried to sleep off the mild discomfort, but the driver’s colorful language as he drove like a man possessed, and the fear of meeting a watery grave in the mighty Beas River that flowed alongside the highway, kept me wide awake.

Now my discomfort levels transitioned from mild to mind-numbing. My husband looked at my perspiring face in alarm and figured what was wrong. With impressive alacrity, he fished out some medication from the bag, which I swallowed sheepishly.

The rest of the journey was a blur of pain and uneasiness as I clutched my aching belly and wished for the dreadful bus drive to conclude. The medication provided temporary respite, until finally, the driver announced that we had arrived at our destination, words that were music to my ears.

The next couple of days at the hotel were, of course, spent on multiple trips to the restroom and back. Needless to say, I wouldn’t touch paneer for some time after the horrendous episode...even if someone paid me a small fortune.

Fast forward ten years, with the regularly mushrooming fast food chains along the highways, the convenience of simply hopping onto a plane or the train at the slightest drop of a hat, and the ease with which navigation apps on mobile devices chart the best possible routes, makes for less adventurous journeys. Although the drive to Manali doesn’t qualify as an adventure I particularly miss, I thank the heavens for the inconveniences of a simple life; for, without these memories, I’d have nothing to reminisce or have a good laugh over.