by Anuj Agarwal
[box] Pork – that’s the clue to the funny piece that you are going to read. Be sure to laugh a bit as Anuj Agarwal sets out to narrate some incidents from a travel experience. His piece reflects the essence of the October 2010 theme, ‘Fun’.[/box] [box type=”info”]MONTH: October 2010
THEME: FUN
CONCEPT: After having two serious themes back to back, we decided it was about time we had some fun! Hence, the theme.
FEATURED PERSONALITY OF OCTOBER 2010: Sidin Vadukut, Author of ‘Dork : The Incredible Adventures of Robert Einstein Varghese.’
Let our hair down, that’s what we did in the October issue. We looked at Fun in two ways – as something that makes you laugh and hence, humour; and as something that brings you innate joy – something that you love doing or admire for the sheer pleasure it brings to you. Fun trips, rib-tickling humour and of course, a fan gushing over Rajinikanth – all of it found place in this edition! [/box]
I have always enjoyed pork. I like the way it tastes in my mouth and I love the way it mixes and matches with other foods. Bacon even more so. There are very few things under the sun that can bring me so much joy as a plate of well- cooked piggy meat.
I like munching into crispy strips of bacon as they go “crunch crunch” between my teeth. I like the slightly sweet pork hidden inside Chinese steamed buns and I absolutely adore those delightfully crisp pork dumplings in How Hua, Calcutta, which have a crunchy base and gently steamed top – the ones that you bite into and feel the juices rushing into your mouth. I can respect a simple ham and cheese sandwich, toasted so that when I press down on the bread, some of the cheese slides out from between the slices of warm bread.
You could say that I love pigs, in a very “I love how you taste” kind of way. Well, this time the pigs decided to fight back.
The following incident took place in Arunachal Pradesh during the first leg of our ‘The Great Indian Journey’. Perhaps a brief introduction is required here. Around two months prior to the incident I am about to relate, my dear friend (and fellow crazy bastard) Scooby and I had decided that the only suitable way of marking the end (or was it the beginning?) of our education was to travel to the four extreme corners of the country on the tightest possible budget. So there was Kibthu in the east, Leh in the north, Koteshwar in the west and Kanyakumari in the south.
The town of Kibthu was to be our first “corner” marking the eastern tip of the country. The plan was to reach Tezu from Tinsukia in Assam and then take a bus to Hayuliang from where we would catch another bus which would take us to Kibthu. That was the plan. We had taken a train from Calcutta all the way to Tinsukia, where we spent a night before heading towards the great unknown. And that is when it happened.
After an early morning departure from the wonderful railway retiring rooms of Tinsukia, we had taken a bus which would take us further eastwards towards Tezu in Arunachal Pradesh. The ride out of Tinsukia was beautiful yet surreal in its own way. There were army men patrolling the highway, rambling tea estates on both sides and a certain quietness in the air which seemed most unnatural. As if the peace and quiet were mere illusions.
The condition of the road was quite good for the most part, till we reached this one stretch where we veered off the road completely and took a detour which supposedly saved us a couple of hours. I remember being thrown all over the bus as it lurched and bounced its way through the detour. I also remember the way the locals sat, unmoving and unperturbed, as if they had put Fevicol on their bums.
Tezu was a nice, quiet little town and the officials there were quite helpful in getting us a reservation at the Inspection Bungalow in Hayuliang, which was to be our stop for the night. A quick lunch and a lazy stroll later, we haggled with what looked to be the only taxi driver in the entire place and managed to get two seats on the last taxi to Hayuliang.
All normal, all fine. We were patiently sitting in the white Sumo, waiting for the last of the passengers to arrive. We could have been in any small town in the country for all you know, so familiar was the entire situation. Except for THE pig.
Yes, a proper, fully alive pig. Tied to the roof carrier of the car.
On the roof lay our bags, the luggage of other passengers and then a live frikkin pig. Right on the roof. Oinking away occasionally. Apparently, Mr. Oink was to be the guest of honour at a wedding near Hayuliang. Perhaps Mr. Oink knew what he was being carted around for, since he would emit a few, resigned squeals now and then.
I was more than a little discomforted by this. Thus far, my interaction with livestock on public transport had been fairly limited to say the least. Well, you live and you learn I suppose.
I had a seat in the centre of the middle row of the taxi, to my left sat a middle-aged woman by the window. On my right sat a lean and quiet local, quite content to stare out of the window and whistle a tune every now and then. Scooby sat in front next to the driver, slightly perturbed by the squealing pig and the fact that he had managed to lose his mobile phone within the first three days of the Great Indian Journey.
We must have been travelling for about an hour when the mountain section started. The air became a lot cooler and even though I was not by the window, the cold mountain air began brushing my face now and then.
And then it started to rain, except that this rain smelt absolutely horrible. And the woman next to me started to scream and shriek. And I remember thinking that this was one of the strangest reactions to rain I had ever witnessed, irrespective of how unpleasant the rain smelt.
Except (yes, alright so you have figured it out already), it was not rain. It was pig pee. The bloody pig on top of the car had decided to take a leak while the car was moving. Perhaps it was a protest pee. Who knows?
Said pee fell through the window, onto Shriek Lady and more than a few drops landed on yours truly.
For a few moments I was in shock. Like proper “dude WTF” kind of shock. The lady next to me had already let loose some fairly not-too-polite words at the world in general and I valiantly tried to roll up the windows and avoid the downpour. But by then it was too late.
Shriek Lady was doused in the stuff, the evil-smelling pee and I was the collateral damage. Scoobs, after a few seconds of stunned revulsion, proceeded to, quite simply, laugh his ass off while Shriek Lady continued to scream and shriek, directing her ire at the driver as if it was his fault somehow.
We would eventually reach Hayuliang after dark and then spend a couple of tense hours finding the Inspection Bungalow. Later, we would take another wild bus ride to Walong in between which I would get piss-drunk on some local brew. We would eventually not make it to Kibthu due to a bureaucratic mix-up and spend three nights in Walong, barely thirty kilometers from Kibthu. Still later, we would freeze ourselves in Leh, dry our clothes on a railway station in Punjab, stuff our faces with crab in Diu and then laze down the western coast of the country. In the six weeks that the Great Indian Trip eventually took, there was much happiness, stupidity and general mucking about. Of all the memories that the trip would generate though, the one of the pissing pig would be my favourite. By a long, long shot.
After spending five years “studying” law in Calcutta (he was actually gallivanting across the north-east), Anuj spent two years litigating in the various courts of Delhi. Realising that his greatness lay elsewhere and NOT because he fired himself, Anuj recently shifted to Bombay. He now spends his time cursing the roads, loving the women, hunting down places to eat and building his character. And trying to make a living. He has four friends, two of whom can speak Manadarin and one of whom is imaginary. He blogs at www.kroswami.wordpress.com, compulsively checking the site stats every five minutes or so.
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