The policeman pointed to hoard of people waiting by the airport exit. There was a man amongst many others holding a sign. 'KK Travels' was printed neatly in red felt-tip ink on a sheet of white A4. I approached.
"Do you have a coach going to Pune?"
"Oh yes, 6.30."
I looked at my watch. It was 6.30am and it was Mumbai.
"Do you have a seat for me?"
"Sir," he said, "do you have a booking?"
"Yes." I knew that was the correct reply but that I was winging it as previously I had not actually asked for seat to be booked but had only inquired - I hadn't been sure which bus I would arrive in time for. Anyhow I knew a booking was not the issue for 'KK'.
"Which is your name?" and he presented page two, three and four of his A4 collection. There were Choudary, Shinde, Broganza, Patel and a host of other names. Mine was not there.
"Sir, I'll go and check," the small stout man said and disappeared into the car park.
Ten minutes later he returned and asked again,
"Are you sure your name is not there?"
I looked but didn't twig to the hint.
"No it's not there." "Sir," he said under his breath, “please just pick a name. We still have one seat.”
I looked at the unlikely list and pointed to Broganza.
"Follow me please Colonel!" he announced, immensely pleased with his joke.
I'd picked a Portuguese name, probably a resident of Goa, but I hadn't noticed the military title. As we left the crowded exit area he explained.
"Sir we have been squeezed out by the Taxis here. We are only allowed to pick up booked passengers. At the bus you have to give your name again but you can say your real name."
The bus was a small twenty-seater and it was in the hands of an assorted bunch of guys: driver, two organisers, a bus-boy and another young guy for loading the suitcases. I gave my real name and boarded the twenty-seater bus.
Six thirty had long passed and the KK guys hung around outside discussing the list of names. Maybe they were worried where the real Colonel Broganza had got to. There was a well-to-do elderly couple at the front and the woman shouted,
"Hey what are you people doing? Six-thirty is long gone."
She hadn't used polite Hindi at all and so it was no surprise to me she was ignored.
More minutes passed. I could hear the couple griping.
"These people always do this. They say half-past six but they never go on time."
Their agitation increased and they shouted a few more times to the guys outside. Finally a couple of the guys boarded to collect money from me and to check a few final ticket details of others. The agitated couple erupted and I missed what the woman said. And I missed what the reply was but whatever it was the effect was that the man erupted from his seat.
"You people can't treat me like this," he shouted, "take my bags off the bus immediately."
The guys seemed to ignore him and made an appearance of carrying on with their business of checking tickets. This infuriated the man even further.
"This bus will not leave. I will do satyagraha in front of the bus. It will not leave till I say so."
The threat of a Gandhi-like protest seemed rather an extreme measure for the situation.
It seemed rather beside the point and it also seemed that he had rather run out of arguments and was floundering. The main organiser at this point intervened, smoothing his ruffled feathers, and getting him back into his seat. He humphed and ha-ed and so on but we were on the final run up to leaving.
The driver started the engine. This gave immense satisfaction to the couple in front and they claimed the triumph for themselves. However the engine only idled on the spot for a few minutes. The driver then edged forward a few feet - another minor triumph for the Gandhi worshippers in front - but we languished there for a few more minutes till we again edged forward another couple of feet. The bus-boy mysteriously hopped out and back in, two or three times, and the bus nudged forward, again stopping for no apparent reason. The man in front seemed to have forgotten all his frustrations and it was as if we were actually under way. He and his wife chatted about this and that looking out the window first this side and then that as if new scenes of the journey up to Pune were already unfolding. It seems the appearance of something, for some, can be as satisfying as the actual thing itself.
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