HERE, THERE & ELSEWHERE. Transit worlds

When it’s time to leave Vermont, Birk opts to stay on longer. So Bins and I leave the sky-blue hearse behind and take the bus. But there are no stops anywhere near Grace and Peter’s farm. The only option is to drive to Montpelier, the state capital, one hour away.

We make an expedition out of it. Three children and five adults pile into the two cars. We have lunch at a pizza parlour called “Positive Pi,” named after the mathematical symbol which is, of course, pronounced as ‘Pie.’ While we’re there Jeremy overhears a conversation nearby. He turns to ask his mother, “Mom? What’s ‘Disney World’?” I assume he’s joking and open my mouth to say that I’ve been there and had a wonderful time. But Grace says, dismissively, “Oh, it’s this really stupid place in Florida where people go to have fun. But there’s nothing worth seeing or doing there.” I shut my mouth at once and avoid looking at Bins. He knows my secret.

I am left to fret about the disturbing complexity of the world: who would have thought that a boy born and brought up in the US would not have heard of Disney World? Whereas I, a foreigner, had known about all things Disney from the time I could say ‘Mickey Mouse’. Grace and Peter’s Earth-conscious philosophy makes it impossible for them to approve of any part of the ‘Disney experience’. I can absolutely understand their need to keep their children far from the wasteful, plasticised lifestyle represented by theme-parks. Yet I couldn’t deny the pleasure I’d had from going there. However guilty I felt to acknowledge it, I wasn’t ready to give it up.

At the appointed hour we’re dropped off at a bus-stop that’s inside a local sandwich shop that doubles as a ticket counter for the Greyhound bus company. There aren’t enough passengers to justify maintaining a proper stop. By the time Bins and I board the bus, dark grey clouds have clogged the sky. The temperature has plummeted. Our exposed ears go numb the moment we leave the warmth of the shop. We huddle together in our seats till we reach the transit point at White River Junction.

The terminal building is big and bustling but our next bus reports a mechanical failure. We’re part of a group of 18 passengers who are told to wait ... and wait ... and WAIT. Then our numbers swell as fresh passengers arrive, for the next bus in the schedule. Tempers fray. We’re told to form separate lines. There’s still no sign of our bus. Children are wailing. Bins is beginning to mutter about “Even in India ...” I want to argue: no! Greyhound normally does a great job! But it’s late, it’s cold and I’m tired.

Finally two buses arrive, huffing and panting. Our driver steps forward to claim us: a petite black woman dressed like a rock star, wearing flashy black leather and long strings of sparkling beads. “Who’s goin’ to Boston?” she calls out. “Follow me!” Her outsize personality is like a jolt of electricity. We jump aboard her bus, happy and revived once more.

Manjula Padmanabhan , author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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