“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
