At the Trichy central bus stand we boarded No.128 towards Thuvakudi. Wife and I were on our way to the Regional Engineering College, where we had studied together in the 1990s. In a foolhardy attempt to revive the collegiate spirit and relive those days, we decided to do without the comforts of a rental car and chose to travel by public transport. The bus was already full when we boarded – all seats were taken – and soon we were rubbing shoulders (and not only shoulders) with fellow passengers, mostly working class men and women. I sensed some of them staring at me, standing incongruously amidst them in my jeans and kurta, a camera slung over my shoulder.
The bus conductor, a well-built young man in khaki uniform, was busy urging people further into the bus, creating space for more people to climb on board. He didn’t seem to mind that this would make his job more difficult, and in spite of no obvious monetary incentive to it he kept trying to accommodate more people. “Get inside! Get inside!” he would shout in Tamil, “Hey! Can’t you see that space? Move inside man! Yes you! Get inside, everybody, move inside!” After a few moments of this shuffling and jostling, Wife and I found ourselves separated by a few meters, she with the women in front, me with the men at the rear. (This is one way how twins get separated at the beginning of Hindi movies from the 1980s, before the climax brings them back together many years later.)
The bus began its journey, and the conductor, standing near the front exit, collected money and issued tickets. Passengers sitting or standing further away passed money through a chain of hands, and the same chain passed back the ticket and change. The conductor was like a magician with money: folded bank notes appeared and disappeared in between his left-hand fingers, and his right hand conjured up coins in a flash, sometimes from his bag and sometimes, it seemed, from nowhere.
From my position I could barely see anything outside: around me were oily heads and hairy hands. (A crowded elevator, in contrast, is five-star luxury.) Standing next to me was a short young man, not more than twenty-five years old, struggling under the pressure of taller men around him. At one point he looked up at me and said, in a feeble voice, “Bheed bahut hai.” It’s too crowded. Yes, I replied, and added that his Hindi was good – was he from the North? It was the beginning of a conversation.
Kunaal was a migrant worker from Madhya Pradesh. Nine years ago he left his parents and migrated to Tamil Nadu with his uncle. He worked in a marble quarry, earned four hundred and fifty rupees a day for nine hours of labour. The job, which involved carrying heavy loads all day, was not easy, but he was used to it. His uncle was now a thekedar and had earned enough to buy a car.
“Who is that woman with you?” Kunaal asked suddenly.
“She is my wife,” I replied.
“Oh! So you are married already?”
“Already? How old do you think I am?”
At this he grew confused. Though his Hindi was fluent, his manner was diffident and every so often he would hesitate, unsure how to proceed. He stared at me for a few seconds, and then said: “Maybe thirty?”
I smiled: “You are off the mark by a long way. Anyway, tell me what you do for entertainment – do you watch Tamil movies?”
He had referred earlier to his acquired knowledge of Tamil, and now he spoke about his favourite actors: Rajnikanth and Surya. He loved Rahman’s music, but felt it had turned repetitive over the years.
“I sometimes go to the movies with Tamil girls,” he said. “They are nice, but they are also strange. I like talking to them, and as long as I am talking they are fine, but the moment I try something more, they say ‘Get married to me first’. It’s so difficult with them, what to do.” He shrugged in a matter-of-fact way.
Later, thinking of this moment would lead me to tears of laughter, but at that moment I only saw the detached frustration in Kunaal’s honest face, and his abrupt question about my marriage began to make sense. Later still, after the laughter had subsided and the incident acquired a poignant character, I was reminded of Manu Joseph’s novel Serious Men, which contains a reference to this plight (if one may call it that) of young men in India. Recalling the younger days of the protagonist Ayyan Mani, a dalit, the narrator says:
He would woo typists, secretaries and shop attendants, and mesmerize them with his general knowledge, the future rebellions he planned against the rich, and his jokes about the Brahmins. They would let him squeeze their breasts on the Worli Seaface. Then, misled by decency, they would ask for marriage. And weep through the pause. Traditionally on the Worli Seaface, infatuation fondled and love cried. He was terrified of that love.
When they began to brush his hand away from their impoverished chests and talk about where it was all heading, and whispered to him the simplicity of marriage, he left them in the knowledge that they could cash in their virginity somewhere else.
Kunaal shared Ayyan Mani’s social background and his aspirations on women, but few of his talents to woo them.
He got off the bus at a stop near Thiruverumbur. This may have been difficult without the conductor’s help. “Make way! Make way for those getting down!” the conductor shouted, his voice booming over the engine’s roar. Kunaal squeezed through the tiny available spaces and disappeared from view.
14 thoughts on “The marble quarry worker”
Sigh. How beautifully you weave things together my friend. Lovely. As always.
Thank you, Seema. You can join Bunny in the “Sigh”ers club. She’s the Founder, and you are now the President.
I will be happy to be in any club Bunny is in!
You do remember you owe me an email don’t you? 😛
Nice narrative for a) those who have never been to India and b) those who have never travelled by bus in India.
For his sake, I hope this Kunaal dude does not relocate to Delhi. If he does, I have a strange foreboding that he might end up like the Delhi 6!
Gosh, that was just what I was thinking, Porcupyn.
Bunny, which part of Porcupyn’s comment are you referring to? If it is the latter, about Delhi, I hope you are only joking.
The latter and I’m not joking.
Neither was I!
Going by this logic, one could read descriptions of the conductor and passengers in The Girl from Finland and conclude that it is for (a) those who have never been to Germany and (b) those who have never travelled by train in Germany.
Or, reading about the people in Manhattan in New York Diary, you could say it is for (a) those who have never visited new York and (b) those who have never travelled by subway in New York.
A couple of points. One: All these posts here are written first for myself and only then for other readers. I write here about what I wish to keep a memory of; I write so that I can reread these posts later and still find them interesting: a snapshot of what I saw, felt, and thought; I write to explore my responses to places and, through this process, discover something new about the place or about myself. (If I had intended this piece for someone who had not visited India, I would’ve explained what thekedar meant, described Trichy as a town in South India, and skipped the remark on Bollywood films from the 1980s. I keep such explanations to the minimum in these pages: translating spoken words – from German or Hindi into English – is one example.)
Two: It is a traveller’s viewpoint. From someone who observes everyday things, and reports on those observations. I’ve done this for places in Germany (even my own neighbourhood), in the U.S. and elsewhere. India is no exception. And what is interesting to me about this particular bus ride is that although I must have taken dozens of such rides during my college years I do not recall consciously observing the details I did on this occasion, or displaying any interest in such a conversation with a fellow passenger. This observation and interest in others is not because I now find the Indian bus ride exotic or unusual (a neighbourhood walk or a drive to Heidelberg is neither exotic nor unusual, yet I write about such mundane matters here, whether anyone likes it or not), it is because I am no longer insular and preoccupied with myself as in those college years – I now like to look around, consciously, and engage with others much more than I did before. So, as I wrote this piece, picking descriptions and conversation snippets from my notebook, I discovered how different I am from that person fifteen years ago.
Your conclusion, Porcupyn, is simplistic and, like Kunaal’s estimate of my age, is off the mark by a long way.
Stay calm, Parmanu. You write for yourself and your readers read for themselves, taking what they want or see from the story. This is why readers hate movies based on books.
Hey! I did not mean it is nice only for those two categories. I meant it would be nice (very informative) to those two. Reading your response, I realize (had not noticed earlier) that all words might not be understood by everyone. But surely you have a non-desi readership who won’t understand those words, but still read the posts …
Re-reading “The girl from Finland” I would agree that having never either a) been to Germany (outside the airport that is) or b) been on a bus, it does give a good perspective of train travel in Germany. But I would not mean to say that it is good only for those people. And I don’t think I would’ve said that about the New York post (which I don’t remember reading previously).
I agree with Bunny’s comment (below) as well, especially this sentence:
“your readers read for themselves, taking what they want or see from the story.”
Which is part of the reason why I had previously complained about your treatment of India – I did not this time, did I? 🙂
Didn’t realize my comment would end up below Bunny’s – please replace the “(below)” with “(above)”.
Another wonderful encounter, beautifully and skillfully unfolded for your readers. Thank you – I was amused, rather ruefully, and glad for the freedoms I enjoyed as a young person!
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