Ticketless

          “I travel ticketless,” I said.

          “Why? Why?” Sri Husband sounded shocked.

“Because no one gives me a ticket anywhere. Aamgele private-bus-conductors poishe ghetaat, punn ticket dinnaat. Neither do the pilots, autos or the taxis.”

 “If you pay for the travel, it’s not called ticketless.” Sri Husband’s logic and mine clash sometimes.

“No ticket means ticketless,” I mumbled.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

One day Sri Husband asked: “How much does it cost by bus to Panaji from Porvorim?”

          “Ten or eight, sometimes nine, depends on how much moad the conductor is willing to return,” I said.

          “There must be a fixed fare,” he said, as always, logically.

          “Must be,” I answered, equally logically, to his annoyance.

I broke the ensuing silence: “Fares vary, bus to bus, conductor to conductor. Government rates are sometimes displayed in a notice pasted behind the driver’s seat. No point in pointing them to the conductor. Can’t argue whilst trying to balance in a crowd with armpits at nose level, stuffed bags around the knees and everybody yelling into their mobiles. Easier to just pay whatever is the fare for the day as long as it’s approximately correct.”

Sri Husband: “So no one has a clue how much money was collected nor how many passengers travel.”

Me, in reluctant agreement: “Yes.”

“We should have a law that elected representatives and government officials of all ranks should travel to office from home by public transport.” Familiar no-nonsense stuff. Secretly, there are times when I love the man’s ideas. He once said a similar thing about use of public healthcare facilities ... of that later.

Far from this conversation, in an airport queue, I examined my stiff, glossy book-mark looking boarding-pass. I had exchanged a computer printout ticket for it. Boarding-pass sounded like someone’s not-so-good results in the X or XII class. But it meant the airline ground-crew (in normal parlance, I’d say ‘receptionist’ or just ‘staff’ but ground-crew sounds fancier) was convinced that I was ‘valid’.

Valid ticket, valid visa, valid passport.

On one side, it told me my name, age and nationality, which seat I would sit in, in which aircraft of which airline, which gate I should walk to, where my journey would end, date, time and other details. On the flip side was a pictorial advertisement.

I compared it with the postage-stamp-sized tissue-like KTC ticket that melts in the moistness of my palm. (I’m a KTC fan. My experience: the buses are punctual, tickets are issued methodically.) And faded-inked, barely readable railway tickets.

Another country, another moment. I wanted to travel by tram. No staff, no counters at the station. A clearly marked computer-kiosk allowed me to choose the language of my choice. It told me step by step, like a dummy’s guide, what buttons to press, how to feed the money into the machine, mark my destination, collect my ticket and change… all done, the screen readied itself for the next passenger. Efficient. Didn’t this country have activists picketing on behalf of the unemployed? We could export some (both activists and unemployed).

In country after developed country, tickets for trams/ trains/ trolleys/ buses allow passengers to take a ride without cheating the system. The entry and exit points to the station ‘read’ the tickets and restrict movement. If one has paid less, one pays up the difference, shows the new ticket to the light bulb and the gate magically opens. If you’re obese, or disabled, or carrying a big fat suitcase, then the staff on duty steps up to help.

“Won’t work here,” I opined.

“Why not?” No matter, what I say, Sri Husband thinks otherwise.

“Our people aren’t ready for such things.”

“Like we weren’t ready for television, micro-wave cooking and how can you forget, mobile-phones? I think we’ve adopted to technology pretty well. From liftmen to surgeons to bus-conductors, everyone’s computer savvy now.”

“Ya-aa,” I chanted grudgingly, “Bu-t..”

“But what?” Sri Husband believes India and Indians can do more than it/they is/are trying/doing. Fantasizer.

“Nothing.”

Obvious irritation noted. Silence again.

This time he broke it. “We’ve adopted technology pretty well. A large number of low-end passengers are doing railway reservations online.”

Me: “There are still loopholes.”

He: “Better than before? Now one can prove one’s confirmed reservation via sms.”

Me: “Ya-a, bu-t..” 

 “But what? What but?”

Me: “Nothing.”

Sri Husband, red in the face, got up to leave the room and me in tears. To think … this started because I misused (or he misunderstood) the word ‘ticketless’.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in