Asking directions of a local

I must confess that I am somewhat spatially challenged. I mean, even after visiting a certain place several times over, the landmarks and routes do not at all stick in mind. It becomes a new exploration each time, because everything looks different with the time of the day and direction of approach. However, my reaching destination is not greatly stressful because of the human interactions on the way.

I am scheduled to observe evening classes at a school almost on the outskirts of the city. It is after sunset and already dark when I set out the first time. Now, Kolkata is already pretty large, and with developments it is expanding further. Two hours of travel in, say, Mauritius, might cover the island nation end to end, but here, spend the same amount of time going in any direction, and you may still be within city limits. I realize it will take me quite a while to get to the suburbs on the other side, from my starting point. 

My concern is that there is no direct bus route there. Besides, I shall be slap bang in the middle of ‘office time’. That means buses overcrowded with office-goers desperate to get home. I use the term ‘overcrowded’ dramatically because ‘crowded’ is normal (remember Kolkata is peopled by a million, if not more!) An empty bus is one that you can board and find a seat, or at least, stand comfortably, maintaining personal space. In ‘overcrowded’, people hang out of the bus entrances, balanced precariously on half or less of one foot each, and the vehicle itself tilts over to one side. Obviously the bus-drivers must be immensely skilled to navigate them safe and sound through heavy traffic every single working day!

 

Part of my journey will be in the opposite direction, that is, towards the business centers, and I can expect to find ‘empty’ buses. Thereafter, I will have to compete for space, and must rethink options as I go along. The journey begins uneventfully enough, and I find a seat right at the back of the bus. Slowly the bus fills to capacity and more. Since there is no air conditioning, it soon feels hot and sticky, but everybody bears the discomfort as best they can. I notice small kindnesses as those seated move over to squeeze in small children beside them. Some others hold belongings for those standing on their laps.

From further up, I hear tempers suddenly flare, and voices rise in altercation. A woman objects to something said or done to her, a man retorts that she is only taking advantage of being a woman. Some passengers smile wryly, a peacemaker asks both sides to calm down. Closer to me two young men pick up on the irritation spewed. New rules for men, bus non-cooperation, they announce. They look around a little disappointed when nobody else acknowledges their jibe.

I feel twinges of apprehension because, yes, my spatial orientation begins to falter. The crowd muffles the shouts of the bus conductor naming the bus stops coming up. I cannot get a fix on where we are, and whether we near or far from where I should disembark. ‘Excuse me, sir’ gets the attention of the nearest regular on the route, and I ask him instead. Far yet, he nods and asks where exactly I am going. Several more heads swivel around in surprise as I mention the place (also known for its slums), and an animated discussion follows on aspects of the information I provide.

One man draws an imaginary circle in the air with his forefinger, demonstrating that I am on a long detour. I am told direct buses were available much earlier at ‘seven point’ and I would have reached destination in 10-15 minutes at most from there. I look blank and immediately tongues click. She doesn’t know the way, they look at me pityingly, and proceed to educate. Get off at the next stop and go back, advises one and some agree the point.  The man in the corner shakes his head. Nah, nah, office time, brother, he interjects, and more agree with his point. It seems the buses only pass through this ‘seven point’ region, and hence the chances are higher of my being stranded there unable to board any transport. Go point to point, the man says knowledgeably; that is, to avoid the office-returning crowd, to wherever transport is definitely available.

There is a general consensus amongst the experienced that the auto-rickshaw is my best bet from here onwards. The first man undertakes the instructing. He describes in detail the landmarks I cannot miss, the shortcuts to keep eyes open for, and pathways I should use. I am cautioned that stepping onto the flyover entails a stiff fine. The other areas are a little less lighted, but not to worry, lots of people will be going that way now, just to follow them. The other men listening in nod their agreement. They soon alert me to start moving through the crowd to exit. Thank you, I sing out to them all; mention not, they chorus back. The people packed like sardines between the seats, sway apart to let me pass.

I have no difficulty thereafter in following the very explicit directions. I find the over-bridge that gets me across the main road packed with traffic, the landmark building that I must turn off at, the dark twisting little alley beside the flyover that connects to another main road, and the auto-rickshaw stand across the way. As I head off to my final destination, I marvel at the unconditional collective cooperation I receive in such chaotic situations. Seems to me that the key to successfully asking directions of the local in India is a bit of respect for people and their cultures.