The Curd Rice Chronicles: Adventures on the Road-Train

In my formative years, we lived in Ram Mohan Pura, Devaiah Park, just a stone’s throw from Malleswaram station. My early schooling was at Indian Preparatory School in Maruti Extension, conveniently close to home.

After Grade 7, I made the big leap to the iconic National High School, where admission itself was a badge of honour. The cut-off marks were sky-high, and though I’d scored a distinction, it still wasn’t enough. My uncle, a major force behind my education,  tapped into his connections, and thanks to the good offices of Mr. Ponnappa, then Director of Public Education, I found myself among the chosen few.

The shift from a school within shouting distance to one in South Bangalore was no small change. Every morning, I would march half a kilometre to the Malleswaram bus stop opposite the police station, schoolbag on my back and a shining aluminium tiffin carrier in hand, filled with curd rice topped with lemon pickle.

Those were the pre-fridge days,  my mother cooked everything fresh, and leftovers were taboo. So for the first half-hour, my tiffin carrier was literally too hot to handle, except by the handle!

Our transport of choice was the legendary road-train, two interconnected bogie buses with a driver in the first and a conductor in each. Our route was first numbered 11 and later changed to 38. The road-train, being bulkier, usually moved slower than a single bus, but we all had our hero, Driver Pappanna.

He was a legend in our eyes, sitting diagonally across half his seat, driving the road-train with swagger, and somehow managing to overtake single buses that had left ten minutes earlier. So even if a faster bus was available, I’d wait just to ride with Pappanna, convinced that his magic would get me to school faster.

The bus rides themselves were an adventure. I usually boarded from the back door, refusing the “reserved for children” privilege at the front,  that felt like cheating! Once in, I’d cling to the footboard, my bag wedged between fellow travellers, my aluminium carrier dangling dangerously from one hand.

It didn’t take long for disaster, or rather, discovery, to strike. One day, the hot tiffin accidentally brushed against a co-passenger, who yelped in pain. I apologized profusely, and he, to his credit, was forgiving. But that incident sparked an idea, a tactical breakthrough for a small-sized boy in a packed bus.

From then on, the heat of my tiffin became my secret weapon, a subtle nudge here, a gentle brush there,  magically clearing my way to the front to watch my hero Pappanna in action.

But my newfound weaponry came with risks. Once, my “ammunition” misfired,  the lid popped open, and a stream of curd rice mixed with bright red lemon pickle trickled onto a passenger’s arm. His expression was priceless. After another round of scolding (and apologies), I realized I now had two forms of power, heat and sticky embarrassment.

To this day, I laugh at the thought of all those unsuspecting passengers who bore the brunt of my aluminium artillery,  victims of a small boy’s determination to get closer to his hero and a seat with a view.