54. ONE WHO LAUGHS, LASTS.... (YEAR 1989)

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN (1989)

The Highs and Lows of A Woman’s Journey in the Corporate World

CARE: This is Chapter 54 of my book Stress, Success and Everything In-Between. These are individual anecdotes but to understand the professional journey in totality, I would recommend reading the book right from Chapter 01 onwards.

On a winter afternoon, I was busy clearing up the files on my desk. It looked like a competition where the inflow heavily outweighed the outflow, defeating it by a large margin. I looked at the clock. It was already half past three. It appeared I would have to carry a lot of work home today. I despised the idea but did not want to leave work pending for the next day.

Suddenly, the news came that communal riots had erupted in the city, which was simmering. The local administration had clamped curfew in most parts of the city. The news sent waves of fear through the office.

Many officers who commuted from Delhi to Meerut by a chartered bus panicked. They were anxious to leave the riot-torn city as quickly as possible. Some promptly dashed to the Bus Stand. Others, who were departmental heads, could not take this liberty. They rushed to the head of the office requesting permission to leave early, but he was reluctant to oblige. After prolonged discussions, arguments, and counter-arguments, the big boss relented and allowed all to leave early but not before 5 pm. Someone went around all the floors announcing this, but by the time all came down and the bus moved, it was already 5.15 pm. I also stuffed all the pending files in my fat briefcase and ran to catch the bus lest I get stuck in a riot-torn city. Nobody knew how many days the curfew was going to last.

As the rickety bus started rolling on the deserted road in the Cantonment area, the sun had set, and darkness had begun engulfing the city. All were tense and silent. The bus hardly moved for about two kilometres when we felt a strong jerk and heard a weird sound, bringing the bus to a sudden halt. The driver and the conductor jumped out of the bus to check the reason and returned to announce that the axle of the bus had broken down. Repairing it was impossible as the city had shut down due to curfew, and no mechanic would be available.

We all got down and started walking towards the bus stand. The men who were wearing shoes took long strides and moved fast. A dozen women officers, wearing chappals and saris, wrapped in shawls and lugging their heavy purses, water bottles and lunch boxes, were ill at ease while walking. I looked at my heavy briefcase and cursed myself. Why did I have to be so conscientious? Why could I not leave it behind?

The men were virtually sprinting towards the city to reach the bus stand and board a State transport bus to Delhi. The women, unable to keep pace with menfolk, decided to stick to each other. We did not know the route and were following the male colleagues, but the distance between them and us was increasing rapidly due to their fast pace. Delhi was eighty kilometres from the bus stand, but that was not the issue. The challenge was to reach the bus stand safely and board a bus to get out of the city burning with communal hatred. Anything could have happened to us in that communal frenzy. We were scared but continued to walk, with every footstep echoing fear.

There was a sudden glimmer of hope as I sighted a local transport bus approaching us from behind. We frantically waved, requesting it to stop. The driver of the bus obliged us by halting at an unscheduled stop. Seeing the bus, the men dashed backwards and hopped on before all the women could board it. Unfortunately, the bus was to terminate at the next crossing only, which was still quite some distance from our destination, the main Bus Stand.

Getting down from the bus at a deserted crossing, most men quickly walked away again. Each was fending for self, and no one had time to care for others. Women dreaded walking as some of them had developed blisters on their feet. We were once again stranded.

At the Chopla crossing, we desperately approached the cabbies parked there, but no one was willing to go to Delhi. Darkness was creeping in steadily, and our anxiety was growing.

On the verge of exasperation, some of us approached an open three-wheeler, locally called “Kowwa,” which could accommodate up to ten passengers on two narrow wooden planks and asked him, “Bhaiya, ITO chaloge?” Our excitement knew no bounds when the driver agreed to go to ITO for a mere Rs 200, almost the same amount a regular taxi would have charged from Meerut to Delhi those days. We heaved a sigh of relief. At last, some means to exit from the riot-afflicted town was available. Squeezing ourselves on the narrow wooden planks, the discomfort of sitting like this for the next three hours on a pothole-ridden road did not deter our excitement.

The kowwa initially moved on the main road but suddenly entered a small lane. Confused, we looked at each other. Hesitatingly, I asked the driver, “Where are you going? I do not think this is the route to ITO.”

The kowwa driver replied brusquely, “This is the shorter route.”

All kept quiet. None of us was familiar with the area. Maybe the kowwa driver was right. Perhaps it was a safer route. But fear gripped us as we entered the labyrinth of lanes and by-lanes. The doors and the windows of all the houses on both sides were shut tightly without any trace of life. Not a soul was visible on the deserted streets. All the residents appeared confined to the safety of their homes. The atmosphere was tense and eerie. Not knowing the religious leanings of the driver, no one could even verbalise one’s fears.  

Soon, we moved out of the residential area and descended into claustrophobic uncertainty. The kowwa had reached near a sprawling field, dark and deserted and surrounded by thick mango orchards. The trees were looming like monstrous dark shadows on all sides. It was not ITO. Where has he brought us? My heart was beating fast, and my throat had dried up. All of us were feeling helpless and horrified. A mass massacre appeared imminent. Will he butcher us all alone, or will others join him in this lonely place? We all were sitting stiffly when the driver suddenly stopped the kowwa and announced, “Get down now. You have reached ITO.”

This place was not our destination. Did we not know ITO like the back of our palms? I mustered some courage, “Where have you brought us? It is not ITO.”

“Of course, this is ITO. There it is!” He pointed towards a dark and deserted biscuit-coloured building. As we stared hard into the darkness, we deciphered the name of the office, “Regional Transport Office,” usually referred to as RTO.

Oh My God! Realising that the driver misunderstood ITO as RTO, we started laughing hysterically.  All were doubling up with laughter, holding our tummies. After the prolonged pent-up stress, the laughter was such a cathartic release. We laughed like people possessed. Standing in that deserted test drive field, the driver was confused, wondering what had suddenly come over this group of women. Moments later, when we controlled ourselves, we asked him if he could take us to the City Bus Stand from where the buses for Delhi left. He stared at us intently and said, “It will be another two hundred bucks.”

We hopped on to the kowwa again, reached the Bus Stand and finally boarded a bus for Delhi. But the story does not end here.

Seated comfortably in the deluxe bus, we wondered about the fate of our male colleagues. Some were critical of their behaviour, and others accepted that everyone fends for oneself when it is a question of life and death.  As the bus reached Bhud Baral, a chill went down our spines when we saw a big crowd of people blocking the highway and frantically trying to stop our bus. Have the blood-thirsty rioters reached here too, we wondered. The bus driver had no option but to apply the brake. The crowd started pushing and jostling to enter the bus. We were initially terrified but startled to find that they were our male colleagues who had deserted us earlier. The bus they boarded had broken down near Bhud Baral, leaving them stranded on the highway. Seeing their embarrassed faces, we all broke into another spell of laughter, which did not stop until we reached ITO in Delhi.

Looking back, I feel it was in these shared moments of terror and absurdity that our bonds with each other strengthened.

(To be continued)

*****