There's always time for chai

by Sally Thige (Canada)

A leap into the unknown India

The journey would supposedly take twelve hours. Majority of which we reasoned we'd be asleep for because it was an overnight trip. Sonja and I would leave Panjim at 10 pm and arrive the following morning, bright with the promise of an entire day to explore the chaotic megalopolis that is Mumbai. If anything, we weren't only saving money- travelling by bus was a fraction of the cost of flying; but also according to many, we were in for an unforgettable experience. Travelling in general requires a lot of patience. Whether you’re anxiously awaiting a visa, or navigating the domino effect of a cancelled flight; if ever there was a time to adopt this virtue, travelling within India would be that time. We boarded the bus with a healthy dose of trepidation, our excitement tinged with nervousness. We quickly found and settled into our lower berth bunks and prepared to go to sleep. Hopefully we would be waking only for the few scheduled stops, a chance to stretch our legs and use a bathroom. The journey that ensued however let me know right away I would not be getting any sleep. Lying on your back in a moving vehicle was a strange sensation to begin with. You can’t see where you’re going you can only feel it. I was quite tickled at first, stifling a fit of giggles like a toddler riding on the shoulders of her father as he playfully swerved, dipped and rattled his body in carefree mischief. It felt like riding a rollercoaster. My night of lost sleep reaffirmed itself when from the shadows, a raucous heavy breathing announced itself. Unlike most of the passengers who had settled into a peaceful slumber, the man from across the berth was preparing his solo performance. The concerto began with a long-drawn low rumbling snore that piqued everyone’s attention. Gradually building in tempo and range, he set off on a chromatic scale of snores; angry grunts channeled spirited snarls and raspy wheezing, breathing into existence sounds I’d never heard. I remained so tuned to his steady cadence, I didn’t notice when the bus ground to a halt until Sonja nudged me to shuffle out. It had only been two hours, but finally we could stretch our legs and more importantly, revel even if only for a few minutes, in the quiet stillness of the dark night. It was past midnight when all passengers sleepily shuffled back on board, most I'm sure like myself, praying the snoring man would be kind enough to let them fall asleep first before he started up again. The driver keyed the ignition attempting to animate the bus. After numerous restarts, on and off and on again, the puttering engine struggled to maintain a pulse. By now a sea of heads peeked from behind the privacy of their curtains, inquisitively looking around as though to make sure they’d gotten back on the right bus, except of course that this was the only bus around. Eventually, he gave up. We sat in stony silence, the hush of night now bearing a different weight. For a moment no one seemed to know what to do, whom could you call this late to pick you up from the side of a highway? A muted fear settled in the bus. The driver and a few men hopped outside and began tinkering with the engine. They spoke in hushed tones, like a person creeping back home in the middle of the night, desperate for discretion. Before long they sounded deep in debate, the flicker of the lone flashlight alternating between whoever had the floor. Hours later, a steady trickle of cars and horns stirred us awake, the lonely highway springing to life with the dawning of a new day. The tinkering men had given up a few hours ago, submitting to failed expectations. Sonja and I ambled off the bus, joining our fellow languid travellers. It was then we overheard one of them say a replacement bus was on its way and arriving shortly. “Well, it is now 10 am in Mumbai… wanna get a chai?” Sonja asked invitingly. I shrugged and smiled. “Sure, I’ve got time for a chai.”