Taken for a ride | Under Cover

People are always telling us to put ourselves in someone else's shoes and see what it's like. WAVE decided to go ahead and do exactly that. Well, not the shoes part but yes, the role playing.

In the first of the series of undercover reporting, we bring you a day in the life of a conductor. We met 16-year-old Sanam Lama and switched places with him. Sanam quit school after seventh grade because he failed and now works as a bus conductor on the Lagankhel-Lubu-Dhungechaur route.

For those of you who thought bus conductors or khalasis, as they're known, have an easy job collecting money from passengers, think again. It's a bumpy ride on the job, literally. What's so difficult about getting passengers to pay up, eh? Wrong, it's more difficult than staging a hold-up. There is a whole lot of haggling with shrewd ladies ready to claw away a rupee, broke students trying to hitch free rides, vegetable sellers stuffing baskets of greens for the market, brats, bootleggers, drunks, undercover cops with crew-cuts handing out student ID cards, pickpockets and reporters trying to take your job for a day. Whew, it's quite a job!

A khalasi's day starts at six AM. He first washes the vehicle, then spends the day doing rounds again and again until there are no passengers to ferry or the guruji, as the driver is called, decides they can't do anymore.

I met Sanam in Lubu shouting "Lagankhel Lagankhel", trying to get passengers to board the bus. A chat with guruji and we had a deal for the day: Sanam now had my job and I had his.

As soon as Sanam learnt how to handle a digital camera and I learnt the fare rates, we were ready. "Lagankhel! Lagankhel!" I shouted, trying to get passengers to board the bus. "Ok guru, let's go."

Guruji starts the engine and we are ready to go but hold on, there's a guy running for the bus. I blast a whistle, guruji hits the brake. The guy climbs in, out of breath. The last of the empty seats are taken. I repeat the bhada to myself: Rs 5 till Gwarko, Rs 7 till Lagankhel, Rs 5 for students with ID cards. And off we go.

Try as I do, I just can't seem to remember who paid how much and who has not paid. There's an old man napping in a corner who snaps when disturbed. "Bajey, bhada," I say but he keeps snoring. "Ok, I'll get you later, I mutter under my breath."

Phweeet! Bang the side of bus and guruji stops for some school girls. All the seats are filled, mostly men. The ladies are standing while a group of young men with crew cuts laugh comfortably in seats one, two, three and four. Guru hits the gas.

I turn to Sanam who's clicking away like a pro. It's the first time he's handled a camera but he's a natural. He takes shots of me, the money in my hands and the passengers while the bus goes bumpity-bump along the pot-holed highway.
"Gwarko! Didi, you haven't paid."

She gives me a Rs 10 note, I need to give her Rs 3 as change but I've run out one rupee coins.
"Didi, I don't have one rupee."
"How can you say that? You have to give me one rupee," she says angrily as if I was going to cheat the king's treasure off her. The traffic policeman is already blowing his whistle.
"Ok, dammit, here take four bucks," I retaliate, planning to bear the loss of a rupee. "Let's go, guru!"
Whistle, bang, bang, and a cloud of dust. Two people wave at us. "Hurry up!" They climb in as we slow down. We get to Ring Road.

Ring road is a good run—smoother, but there are crazy cars and motorbikes overtaking from the wrongside. Guru's going fast, I'm leaning half out the door, since I've done what I used to curse khalasis for doing—pack the bus like one stuffs gundruk in a bottle. "Satdobato! Anyone for Satdobato? No? Ok, let's go!"

"No, wait," someone yells from among the many heads and hands. I can see pushing and shoving as two hands and a head appears and leaps out, followed by another. "Fourteen rupees, ladies."
"We are students."
"ID, chha?"
"Here," they flash their cards.
"Ok, 10 then."

Bang, bang and we head for Lagankhel. As we cross the petrol pump, some impatient passengers yell, "Stop! Let me out!" The bus is less than a minute away from the last stop but no, he insists on getting down here. Guru drives on calmly. Finally, we reach Lagankhel but there's more money to collect. That group of three and the napping old man hasn't paid. The three women get off, point at the old man and say, "Ba will pay."
I nod. "Ba, bhada."
"Kati?"
"Four people, Rs 28." I give the last two-rupee coin as change.

The bus is empty and I have Rs 280 in my hand. Neat, Sanam smiles at me. We say goodbye. I try to pay Sanam for taking pictures but he refuses although he earns only Rs 500 a month. I leave with newfound respect for khalasis.