Belonging

The couple sitting in front of me are completely absorbed talking to each other.

Next to the window is the boy who looks no older than 12 or 13 years, a sallow face on a thin frame wearing a faded striped shirt. By him sits a young woman, somewhere in her mid twenties wearing blue jeans and a full sleeved shirt top. Her long brown hair is set in an elaborate hairstyle, coiled neatly and emerging in a flourish over her head. When she turns, she reveals a pretty face somewhat overwhelmed by the red of her lipstick.

A long ride from the airport through familiar landscapes and city streets awaits me. Snatches of conversation between the two that I can decipher over the ambient noise provide a welcome diversion. I soon figure out that he has just arrived by air and that she has received him at the airport. He complains of delays and she explains that he is under age and that is why it would have taken longer. They are very comfortable talking to each other, must be brother and sister, I think.

We move slowly past the series of parking lots filled with white sedans. The boy exclaims, “How many Marutis”! He has never seen such a concentration of cars in one area before. Must be coming into a large metro for the first time, I think

The road is sandwiched between manicured gardens with a variety of shrubs and greenery. “Look, so beautiful it is, isn’t it?” the young woman says as she looks at the boy, full of enthusiasm. Her Hindi is soothing to the ears, maybe the language of Eastern UP.

The bus has glass windows stretching up all the way to its roof providing a clear view of the sky on either side. It is late afternoon and clouds hang low hiding the sun. She calls his attention to the clouds, excitement in her voice. He does not reply, but I can sense that he is happy. All of the north is in the grip of a heat wave and people must be desperately awaiting the monsoon.

We speed down the six lane highway straight through the countryside. “How nicely the road has been made”, she says to the boy. He grunts in agreement and then replies “our place also has a new road coming up”. She is surprised and eager for every bit of news about home - how has her mamaji come to own a car, who drives it, what business he is engaged in. I figure that their mamaji is a labor contractor and ferries workers to the place of work in his vehicle.

“One day when I was driving”, she says, “the vehicle started swerving from side to side. I was all shaken up. I have no idea why. I was holding it straight!” I am suddenly alert. That is not a four wheeler she is talking about, I think. She must ride a scooter, she works.

We pass a gigantic rock, one of those you find dotted about the Deccan on otherwise absolutely flat land. More than half of this one has been cut away for making rock jelly. I am surprised to hear her say “this mountain looks so nice. Look at the way they are carving it up round and round!”

“I came here 7 years ago”, I hear her say. “Then I must have been only 9 years old”, he replies. He looks younger than his 16 years, I think, probably because of his slight build. But then, he does talk with the maturity of a 16 year old. She must have been like her brother when she came, I think. The city has transformed her.

Traffic is starting to build up. We move past a long line of wayside stalls stacked with heaps of mangoes. He is not impressed – there must be much bigger mandis in the town to which they belong. She shows off the large mosque, the lit up marriage halls, the imposing church and the metro.

The boy is getting impatient. “It is not too far now”, she says. “Where we get off from the bus, we take a side road. No, buses will not go on that road, only autos. We can also walk.”

We move past a large hospital which she marks out for him. They get up from their seats and the boy picks up a shoulder bag, his only piece of luggage.

As the bus moves past, I get a glimpse of her face. She looks happy and proud. This is her city and they are nearly home.