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needed for her culinary work. I was half out the window by now,
and the little man had drawn his feet up and was perched on two
square inches, like a squirrel, with his chin resting on his knees.
The heat and smell from the kerosene stove grew unbearable.
'This is ridiculous' I told the woman finally. 'You can't cook a
bloody meal on a bus. It's dangerous. It's probably against the law,
too. Why didn't you bring a packed lunch?'
I felt like John Cleese in
Fawlty Towers
.
The woman gave me an evil, uncomprehending glare and went
on unpacking a pile of chappatis, a stainless steel container of lime
pickles, and another of homemade yoghurt. Then she bent to stir
her pot with an absurdly small teaspoon, releasing a mighty fart as
she did so.
'Jesuschristalmighty!' I exclaimed loudly, appealing to the other
passengers for support.
No one knew remotely what I was going on about. Some even
looked as if they wished they'd brought stoves along, too, glancing
enviously at the steaming pot. Indians are punctual and fussy eaters,
incapable of missing a proper meal. They are also deeply suspicious
of food cooked by others.
The old man beside me did not seem in the least bit bothered by
any of this. He continued to puff on beedies, staring blankly at the
untamed expanse of scrub, rocks, and steep hills passing by, its colour
increasingly bleached by a climbing sun that was almost white
behind the veil of dust usurping air and sky.
The poor benighted Hindu
He does the best he kin do,
Sticks to his caste,
From first to last,
And for trousers just lets his skin do.
- Anonymous limerick from the Raj era
I reminded myself that someday all this would seem merely funny.
And I had to admire the woman's ability to set up an entire kitchen
and dining table in what little space she could steal on a moving bus,
without spilling a drop of anything or setting herself on fire. Within
