As you go past Sukna the cluster of houses on the top of the kurseong hills appear in sight, but still some four thousand feet to climb, the drive was not going to end too soon. It was getting chilly inside the car.
"The tourists who flock here are looking for a novelty in the hills. But to a large extent its unrewarding I feel. What do you feel Sajal? What's the traffic like in the hills at this time of the year?" Mr Biswas asked, but not in an usual crafted sentence.
The physicality of the hills is overpowering for the unassuming tourists. So many of us have got carried away by the beauty of the hills and that's all what they are searching for. Mr Biswas was a drifter in the hills and that's what makes him different.
I have been in this line for over a decade to be able to read the minds of my passengers. My impressions of them are the results of their conversations inside my car - their pauses, their anger, their sulking, their pot shots at people, their signalling to God. There is a deal to be struck between my passengers and I. Then there are acts of transgressions by some passengers; those illicit behaviour and the sizing up of each other followed by no holds barred exchange of choicest of phrases among the fuming passengers and the grilling. Inner acceptance and validation concerns me more than the legality of my action. My rear view mirror is not for surveillance (sic!). I have realised that talking to people is cathartic. A lot of them share a few things with me as they go on to confide in me as we get along like friends. Sometimes our paths cross. Notwithstanding the hassles of driving, people havn't realised the purpose of going to the hills and that is to fulfill the needs of their souls. Hills heal the scars of your wounds. Power to heal and rejuvenate is consecrated in the hills. In the hills the spotlight turns inwards towards your inner self. It appears that Mr Biswas was making the journey to mend the crack lines and reconcile with his past. It is never easy to bury the past without reconciling with it.
One of the highs of ferrying tourists to the hills is the number of people you get to know and I must confess of being pretty good at remembering faces. I wouldn't have known that this man had brushed past my memories, if I hadn't had the habit of hitting off with people who entered in my car. On the flip side, I have on occasions been subjected to bad temper from few of my passengers. Dismissing those would have been being dishonest to my work and believe me, they have not been let off the hook, not once but each time they had crossed the line. Just filtering such bad elements is not enough.
It so happened that our conversation transported us back in time and we hit a common past. It just couldn't have been providence. This story fired my senses. Recounting this story was like stepping back in my own past. I couldn't wait to tell the story. Here I was with the son of the gentleman whom I had taken to Kurseong when I started off my business years ago. Mr Biswas was numbed at the unexpected mention of his father from a taxi driver whom he met for the first time and could not thank him enough. He thought it was bizarre. His father loved to visit places but was a bad traveller. Way then I could sense that his extravagant plan of annual sojourn to the hills was doomed to fall in a heap as he announced it. But ironically I had taken him to the hills in my old Maruti Dzire way back only once. He had never made it again. He was recuperating from a bad back then. We lost touch after that trip and strangely his memory too vanished like a boat adrift in the rough sea. He had promised to me then that he would capture the time spent in the hills in his random notes and post it to me. He was gifted with prose and words flowed out of his pen with seeming ease. He didn't give the impression of a pompous man. He had narrated to me how was bitten by a travel bug right in his younger days and always longed to reach out to people and places.
"It is so ironical that you chose to be a cab driver to earn a living and I am into an odd job, but both of us share an intense urge to cut lose and break free and drift into a world of our known ", said Mr Biswas.
He found an echo of his mind in me. How strange is the coincidence and how sharp is the contrast among us ! I started taking fancy to his story. He let his guards down but made no reference to the trip that his father made years back in my car.
Mr Biswas later confided in me of his attraction for the hills. He had almost childlike enthusiasm when he set foot in my car. In fact the mist and the solitude of the hills had transported him to a different world. More than the place he liked the idea of a quick getaway. He promised to come back again next year. It was natural. I could see that in his eyes.
"So you have anchored my emotions and we have developed a bond from here on. I promise to carry your story to the world." said Mr Biswas.
That's what it is. It beckons you. I said looking at Mr Biswas.
But what do I achieve in being a partner in their journey.Their journeys are personal.I have a family to support and lead a hand to mouth existence.Where is the time to reflect back.Hills are lonely and many a times the loneliness tears you apart.So it's better off cooling your heels among people and having fun rather than being a recluse. Passengers look down upon drivers who are devoid of cheer. Anyways in the winters as night falls in the hills, its all about loneliness and obscurity. Many of passengers who have made it to the hills just for the heck of it have wondered as to how the people manage in such desolate surroundings.But most profound ones like Mr Biswas eulogise about the hills and come back again and again as their true calling.
I had descended from the hills only the night before and hadn't brushed aside the mountain fatigue as yet. And I was there again driving to the hills the next morning. It's a job that we don't really enjoy as the tourist season comes knocking. You must drive along the Pankhabari stretch to see what we endure on the roads. It really wears you down.
"But you don't really sound bored." said Mr Biswas.
The brain circuit gets entangled and you goof-up at some points when you drive up and down the hills too frequently. We are wired up like this. The best part is that they don't strike you without a warning. Its predictable but it drains you out emotionally. Memories are better wiped off rather than holding on to them. Tourist season is when we take people for a ride and make money big time is all bunkum because holidays and off season leave us high and dry with a big financial loss. My last break was when my father died.
Piku, the kingpin who held a sway over the taxi driver association of the hill towns had proposed to Mr Biswas's father about me many years back. Piku was sufficiently frank with him and hadn't hidden any of my flaws when it comes to running of the business. Piku had always introduced me as his brother. Mr Biswas's father and I had instantly developed a liking for each other despite the difference in age. Perhaps the love for the hills brought us together.
The slow traffic on the busy single lane Hill Cart Road would not allow my Mahindra Xylo hatchback to pick up speed. Thank Goodness, that's catered for in my tariff - those loss of man hours. Roads inside the town are honk-free zones. The traffic moved at a snail's pace as both the toy train coaches and the cars vied for space on the roads. My last stop was at Cafe Kurseong Diaries. Driving downhill in the lowest gear was edgy while negotiating the hairpin curves. Mr Biswas said good-bye as if there was no tomorrow.
I had by now a thousand stories to share as each passenger who gets into my car has a story to tell. But it took a bit longer for me that day to take my mind away from that trip to Kurseong!
It was lovely reading it Sir.
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