And I? I Took the Road Most Traveled By

As a kid, like all kids, I was once obsessed with a movie about a golden retriever. I forget exactly how the plot unfolded, but I do remember that somehow, the talking dog found himself stranded (along with a sassy cat) about 100 miles from home. Undeterred by speeding cars, trigger-happy poachers and snap-jawed alligators (okay, I may have invented the last two obstacles) the plucky pets defied society's expectations and made their way back home to the human family that had given them up for dead.

How does this relate to my life? As Delhi rushes to expand its public transport offerings in anticipation of the Commonwealth Games, I increasingly feel like getting from Point A to Point B, a simple process if one believes Google Maps, is in fact more like diving headfirst into a pool without first checking how deep the water really is.

A few months back, Google Maps introduced an India-specific feature called 'navigation by landmarks' meant to mimic the way that Delhi-ites give directions. In the interest of accuracy, this application should feature no maps but instead feature a tiny, tobacco-chewing gnome who climbs out of the screen and curses at you prodigiously for your lack of driving talent, never mind that he was the one who just tried to drive 500 yards in reverse down a busy thoroughfare. When asked for directions he should scratch his head and gesture extravagantly and loudly in the direction of the oncoming traffic while shouting directions in a dialect you don't understand. After you wander forlornly in the direction you think he has indicated, you'll be informed a few intersections away by a policeman with an assault rifle that you can't go any further because some VIP and his motorcade are coming through on their way to the Commonwealth Games stadium, which has just inexplicably collapsed.

But there are some things that even the Internet can't imitate, and so the "navigation by landmarks" features helpful hints like "Turn right at ICICI bank" which, in terms of usefulness, is about as indicative as giving someone directions in Manhattan by saying "Turn right at Starbucks, left at Duane Reade, and you're there."

But this story isn't about that, it's about the dog, the sassy cat, and me. I recently went to visit my aunt, who lives two hours away from Delhi in a dusty industrial village. I had an 11:30 am meeting in the office, and I decided to leave her house at 9 in order to get there.

"Take a highway bus," my Uncle said. The highway buses ply the long, straight roads from Rajasthan to Delhi, and are often - although not always - to be found on or near the highway. We drove until we saw a clump of people standing by the highway. My uncle went down the line, banging on buses and asking their destination until one of the drivers said he was going all the way to Delhi.

"My niece needs to get to CP," said my Uncle.

"Sure, sure, we'll take her there," said the driver.

"See, nothing to it," he said. I sat down with my bag on my lap. The bus I'd snagged was a Volvo, with padded seats and a generous aisle. Besides me, the entire population of the bus was young men of the lean variety, wearing embellished jeans, rubber sandals and expressions that combined both boredom and curiosity. These contradictory stares were now directed at me, or so I felt. I clutched my bag tightly on my lap and prayed that my cousin's graphic tales of highway robbery and general banditry would not, in fact, come true. (I can't say whether it's fact or fiction, but she swears that someone pulled a gun on one of her friends while they were traveling on a highway bus once.)

Anyway, I hoped none of my fellow passengers were armed. The bus was fancy enough that it had inbuilt entertainment. In Damocles-ian fashion, a single TV screen hung by a thread over the driver's head. It was showing a film. I didn't understand the dialogue, but that was all right since there wasn't much of it. Despite the language problem, the plot is ingrained in my memory: mainly, it involved lean men in embellished jeans, a highway bandit, and a woman whose sari, despite its diaphanous nature, only accentuated her massive cleavage.

The large-breasted heroine had been tied to a wall and was dancing around in distress (the sari, of course, had long given up its attempts at subtlety - as had the film's producers) and the hero (who looked to me much like the villain) was busting in on the scene with a revolver in each hand, when my own highway transport came to a lurching stop under a bridge.

Everyone else got out. I stayed on. Eventually, confused, I went forward to ask why everyone was getting off the bus.

"The bus stops here," said the driver. I glanced around. Except for the highway and the bridge, I had no idea where I was.

"I thought this bus was going to CP," I said. The driver spat out the window, as if to show what he thought of what I thought. I clambered off and ran to the window of another bus parked in front.

"CP?" I asked.

"Dhuala Kuan," said the driver. This destination was, at least, in Delhi, so I once more climbed on and handed over money. Alas, this was no Volvo. The bus lurched from side to side, causing me to sway perilously close to the passengers on either side. They were, uniformly, men. Not that I would have been any happier to sway into the lap of some matron.

The bus lurched along to Dhaula Kuan, where I once more disembarked.

A crowd of people, luggage and occasional barnyard animals (!) clustered by the road, reminding me of an ancient video I once watched about Ellis Island. I edged my way to the front. Someone had told me there was a formal auto stand at Dhaula Kuan, but I never saw it. Instead, I raced ahead of the crowd to flag down an auto.

"80 Rupees," he said, which was about twice the actual fare to my destination.

"Fine, fine," I wailed. And we started off. We had gone about 2 kilometres when he pulled over, made a distressed noise, and got out of the auto to check his fuel gauge. This had happened to me before, so I sat there. It was only when the driver's noises of distress had reached a crescendo that I finally peeped out of the auto and asked point-blank,

"What is it?"

"Yeh gadi nahin jaigi," said the driver. (This car won't go.) As if he were discussing the weather. I hopped out into the frazzling sun. The driver and I scanned the road. We were near some of the area's nicer hotels, which means there were no autos for miles.

"Now what?" I asked the driver. To his credit, he seemed as unhappy on my behalf as I was.

At last, a lean DTC bus lumbered into view. Of all public transport, the DTC is the dici-est of all. Packed rim to rim, it swings down the road with the same lazy sway in its rear end as a Brazilian girl walking down a beach.

"CP, CP," the auto driver shouted, rushing out into the deserted lane and waving his arms frantically, with as much energy as one of the engineers trying to stop the Titanic before it hit an iceberg. Some exchange took place, although the bus continued to move. "Go, go!" the driver shouted, like an Olympic coach cheering on an athlete, and I dashed across the street and sprang aboard (there are no doors, which made this process easier). The bus was literally packed - people had been folded and crammed into corners like clothing in a businessman's suitcase. I handed over my cash and tried to convey an attitude that simultaneously said, "I like it here" and "If you try to fondle my ass, you will lose your hand."

To my surprise, the men on the bus were distinctly uninterested in my feminine charms (I guess Delhi isn't that different from Manhattan, after all). The bus never actually came to a stop. It rumbled through the roads as men climbed on and off, packing into corners and then redistributing. The conductor remained unfazed by the mob that swirled around him, even exhorting us to get closer together to let more passengers on.

I saw the white roof of a Janpath landmark. But we passed it, and kept rolling.

"I thought this bus was going to CP," I told the conductor.

"Now it's going to Jantar Mantar," the conductor said. "You wanted CP?"

"Yes!"

"Ok. You should have gotten off over there," and he gestured back over his shoulder, to indicate that the past could not be changed. I clambered off the bus and into the road, trying to avoid the melange of cars and rickshaws that make central Delhi such an ideal place to have an accident.

I wove my way through the dusty street. By then, it was noon. I'd called my boss to say that I'd missed the meeting.

"I'm on a highway bus somewhere in Haryana," I said, thinking that my hard-core approach to transit would somehow impress him.

"Okay," he said. (What can I say? He used to work in Bihar.)

I reached CP, but managed to get lost in its rings. Around the time I passed the same McDonald's for the second time, I hailed an another auto and told him my destination.

"You're very far away from there," he said helpfully. My face was red and damp, like a newborn's. I was, indeed, very far from where I wanted to be. It turned out that I had climbed into the car of a philosopher.

I told him the name of my office.

"You work in the newspaper?" he asked. I should have seen the signs, but did not.

"Yes," I said, resigned, and also enjoying the attention.

"Madam, I have a philosophy. It is a very simple, clean philosophy. You should tell your readers about something like this."

"Ah," I said, a noise between assent and confusion.

"You see, I am a man who believes that everything we do has a purpose. I believe in God's plan. I let him take me where he wants. He is the one who guides this car." (I couldn't help but hope he was right - in order to make sure his point was understood, the driver was staring at me in the side mirror, rather than at the road) "When you become thirsty, that is God's plan. When you are hungry, that is God's plan. The key is to be patient."

"I see," I said, nodding.

"I will pray for you," he said, as he came to a halt outside my building, "this office - it is only by the grace of God that you have arrived here today, ma'am. Only by the grace of the Almighty."

There is a scene in the Mahabharata, the famous Hindu religious epic, in which the god Krishna Himself appears to guide Arjuna's chariot. For a moment, I had double vision. I thought - wow! Maybe that isn't so hard to fathom.

And that is the similarity between the dog, the sassy cat and me. Thanks to the grace of God rather our own abilities, we reached our destination.