The Thong Also Rises (29 page)

Veerappan was wanted in the southern states of India for killing more than one hundred people, including senior police and forest officials. Anyone who tried to come in the way of his flourishing business of smuggling sandalwood or poaching elephants was dealt with mercilessly. He had even abducted and killed a former minister and also kidnapped a famous movie star from his farmhouse on the outskirts of this forest region, only to release him later (the saying goes that the release was made only against a hefty ransom). The Bandipur forest region abounded in sandalwood trees and still teemed with herds of elephants. It was Veerappan's favorite haunt.

I had seen his photographs in the local newspapers so many times I could recognize that handlebar mustache anywhere. He was very proud of his moustache and tended to it carefully. Newspapers reported that he waxed and groomed it almost daily. To him, it was a sign of his manliness. This
together with his piercing black eyes made for a very fierce portrait. He lorded over this region. I was mad. Mad not to have checked out the route to Mysore. I had never even dreamed that this bus would take me through this dangerous area.

As an accountant, I have always been partial to statistics. I remembered Veerappan's details vividly; it was almost like I was reading aloud from a newspaper. Ivory smuggled worth U.S. $2.6 million, sandalwood carted off around 10,000 tons worth a whopping U.S. $22 million. The price on Veerappan's head, a cool U.S. $1 million plus!

I looked around the bus. The “polyester” man had stopped whistling and combing his mop of well-oiled hair. The farmers, who had sprawled comfortably on the seats and were scattered here and there, were no longer speaking across to each other in their local Kannada dialect.The two schoolgirls seated just ahead of me were peering outside the window wide-eyed.

It was unbelievable. I never could have imagined that this noisy bunch of fellow travelers could ever keep quiet, except perhaps when in deep slumber. Now, if even one of the delicate white flowers, which my fellow woman traveler adorned, had fallen off, we would have all heard it—loud and clear. It was eerie. Now I knew the meaning of pin-drop silence.

Our bus screeched to a sudden halt. The driver shot out some sharp commands. I did not understand a word of what he was saying. People were filing out quietly. I had to follow suit. All I knew was that it wasn't a case of a measly tire puncture or engine failure. It was something much, much worse. The queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach told me so. I wish I knew what it was. Well, actually I had no wish to know what had happened.

For once, I dreamed of being in my cubicle, hunched over the laptop. Bored to death but safe and sound. But there I was, standing with others on the forest ground. If someone invented a pill to quash the travel bug, I knew I would be the first to queue up to be a human guinea pig.

A forest official began to scrutinize each and every face very closely. When it was my turn, the guy yelled at me, in Kannada, I presume. He tried again, in another language— perhaps it was Tamil. Several languages, all unknown to me, are widely spoken in South India. This official then just threw up his hands in a helpless gesture.

It was the “polyester” man who explained to me in a smattering of English that Veerappan had stirred some fresh trouble. Entry farther down in this area was forbidden, our bus would have to turn back to Bangalore.

Clutching my backpack tightly, as if it would bring me some solace, I climbed back into the bus. The “polyester” man did not clamber back, he remained behind to enjoy the fun, I suppose. Or perhaps to act as the interpreter for other poor souls like me. My only connection with the world had slipped away. The chatting began; the farmers were talking loudly, as were the bus driver and ticket collector. One of the schoolgirls began to sob.The sari-clad woman rushed to her aid and hugged her. I wish she had hugged me as well. I felt so alone, so aloof. It was like being stranded in a desert.

But I steeled myself. I wasn't a school kid. I had traveled alone in other regions of India, regions considered inhospitable to a solo woman traveler. Surely I could brave this ride back to Bangalore. I thought of taking a quick nap. But, grabbing some shut-eye was just not possible. I was as wide-eyed and scared shitless as the school kids.

I knew I was shivering, but I tried to pretend that I was tuned in to my Walkman and was swaying to the music.

The bus made a U-turn.We were going back, the way we had come, back to Bangalore. The only hitch—we had forayed deep down into the forest area. It would be at least half an hour before we hit the main road and civilization. Not good, not good at all.

On the way back, the driver stopped, it seemed every few minutes, to pick up passersby, rural folk, who had no idea that they could not venture deeper down the road into the forested area.

Till now the bus had been largely empty. But now it was getting crowded. More and more people got in. People with jute sacks filled with grain, people carrying bundles of sugar cane, stacks of hay or firewood, and even piles of clothes. Perhaps this person with a huge bundle of clothes was a shop owner.

No one sat next to me. Perhaps it was my smelly socks, or the fright that was visible on my face. Or did they just want someone to talk to?

I realized I had been uncivil enough to dump my backpack on the seat next to mine. With a sigh, I moved it beneath the bus seat. Another stop and crowds of people shoved their way in.

And then it happened. Someone dropped himself heavily into the seat next to mine. I turned to look. It was a tall wiry man with a fierce handlebar mustache. I gaped open-mouthed. He wore the traditional
dhoti
(white cloth wrapped around his waist), an extremely tattered vest, and a loose overcoat of some kind. There was something hidden beneath his overcoat.

Beads of sweat appeared on my forehead and trickled
down. I began to shudder. My heart was thudding so hard I thought it would jump out. I began to edge towards the window, wishing I could leap out of it. There was no doubt about it. This man was the one and only Veerappan.

What was Veerappan hiding beneath his overcoat? Elementary, my dear Watson, what could it be besides arms and ammunition. Perhaps it was a country-made pistol, a dagger? Or if nothing else, perhaps an extra-sharp sickle?

No, it looked like he was hiding a handmade grenade. Only a grenade would be much smaller. It was a country-made bomb. Yes, that was it, a bomb. What if it suddenly exploded? The heat was unbearable; didn't country made bombs explode in the heat? Both he and I would instantly die. He would not even have to take the pains to kill me.

To make matters worse, another ditty began to resound loudly in my head, only this time, it was my own creation— “Dead as a dodo, dead as a duck, as dead as you on a trundling bus.” What an unusual trip. My unique dance moves to begin with and now my own ditty!

The masses of people that had just got in with Veerappan blocked my view of the driver. Was the driver held at gunpoint? Where was the bus going? Once again, a deep hush seemed to descend.The woman traveler heaved herself up, it seemed to be as far away from me as possible, and disappeared ahead in the standing crowd. Others shot sly glances in my direction, or so it seemed. The pounding of my heart could not get any worse. My t-shirt was already soaked in sweat.

I wanted to call my mother. But each time I tried to dive down and pull out my backpack, where my mobile phone lay buried amidst clothes and books, sharp black eyes would follow me.

I didn't want to be abducted; I didn't want to be slashed with a knife, either. I began to believe in karma. I was just destined to die on a trundling bus.

I glanced at my wrist to check the time. Veerappan followed my gaze. Worse still, he continued to stare at my wrist, as the seconds and minutes went by. I was done for, he was going to grab me and slash my wrist. In fact, I had caught him glancing at my wrist even earlier. Perhaps that big ugly bulge was not a country bomb, it was a sharp dagger.

Veerappan suddenly reached into his overcoat. Now I would either be killed or taken hostage. I began to shiver even more violently than ever, my teeth chattered. I could not figure out what would be worse—having my wrists slashed or being his hostage. From Veerappan's perspective, the only apparent city slicker on this bus would command a bigger ransom. So perhaps I would not be killed. The police authorities would not like to send a signal that even visitors, let alone, officials were being kidnapped and killed by Veerappan as they watched helplessly. Surely the state government would succeed in securing my release. Maybe I could escape. Would watching Tarzan help me survive, if ever I did escape? Could I swing on trees? Would I be a national hero, after having escaped Veerappan?

As I was thinking all this and much worse, Veerappan drew out a large crumpled paper packet—the bulge beneath his overcoat had disappeared. He shyly nudged me and offered me roasted peanuts. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

And why was he staring at me so hard, each time I had tried to dive for my backpack? During our trip, as he eventually pointed at my wristwatch and grinned a tobacco-stained, toothy smile, I understood. He had not seen anything like it before and he loved my watch.

Perhaps the fast-changing digits fascinated him, or perhaps yellow was his favorite color. When we finally made it back to the bus station at Bangalore, and I was not as dead as a dodo, even though dead tired, I gave him my watch. I wonder whether he still wears it.

Lubna Kably calls herself a wondering wanderer. Her adventures of traveling in India have appeared on
www.bootsnall.com
. Today she roams freely in the forests of Bandipur and other parts of India, in search of another misadventure. The real Veerappan was killed in a police encounter in 2004, after having evaded arrest for nearly twenty years.

Were they plumbers or perverts?

M
Y GOOD FRIEND
B
ONNIE AND
I
HAD JUST MOVED
into a new
mansion
in the outskirts of Tokyo. Sounds impressive, I know, but unfortunately, a
mansion
in Japan boils down to a plain old apartment building. No moats, bodyguards, or other fancy thrills. Just a modern two-bedroom slab of concrete towering over a noisy, chaotic street.

I was in my fifth year of post-graduate studies in Japan, and I'd moved to Tokyo to complete my final research. It was nearly summer, and after lugging heavy boxes up and down stairs all day, I was more than ready to soak my sticky body in our new
o-furo.
I pushed the button next to the bath and twenty minutes later, a piercing
beep
shot through the flat, announcing that the bath water was ready to embrace my weary limbs.

I ripped off my filthy clothes, tossed them into the laundry basket, then scrubbed my whole body raw with a small rectangular towel (the Japanese don't use washcloths, but long towels, to make sure they cover every inch of grime
lodged in all private nooks and crannies). Next, I rinsed myself off—outside the bathtub—as Japanese custom obliges.

Once I was absolutely certain I was squeaky clean, I lowered a toe into the…hideously
cold
water.
Nani kore?
(What the…?) I howled. Bath water in Japan tends to run uncomfortably hot, even scalding. I'd set the temperature to a moderate 42 degrees Centigrade, but the tub was as chilly as an Alaskan lake. That evening, I was no happy salmon, that's for sure.

It was too late to call the concierge, so I lay out my futon and pouted. I made a mental note to get our bath fixed the next day. What an embarrassing experience
that
would turn out to be!

“
Konnichi wa,
” the concierge greeted me, nervously bobbing his shiny head up and down. He seemed just as scared to talk to me as most other Japanese men. Bonnie and I happened to be the only foreigners in the building, according to our landlord, and from the way this guy was acting, I was certain there hadn't been any before us.

“
Konnichi wa,
” I replied, then carefully explained our
o-furo
problem.

“
Mondai nai
” he answered, no problem. “A maintenance man will be by this afternoon,” he promised me, in Japanese. “Service in Japan sure is something!” I thought, relieved to have the situation under control so quickly. I wandered back to the apartment, to begin writing the first draft of my doctoral dissertation, due at the end of the month.