Created: 25 July 2012
The woman's thin lips were chalk white next to her brown skin as she slid down under her bus seat. Hands reached out to drag her up. "Birami chha", "she is sick," someone said, opening her window. A man hung her out the window, holding on to her red sari, while she proceeded to throw up continuously for the next hour and a half. "Her first time on a bus," the man noted sourly.
Three seats back, a small baby, naked from the waist down, his tiny body girded by strings tied at birth by the Brahmin priest, nursed feverishly at his mother's breast, oblivious to the chaos and slightly sickening smell of vomit that began to pervade the bus.
Behind the baby, a rooster, tucked into a basket, squawked mournfully, perhaps aware that tonight he was to be the main ingredient in someone's chicken curry. Near the rooster was my seat - a large wooden suitcase perched in the aisle that I shared with three other people. The suitcase belonged to a lovely Nepali couple who had taken pity on a foreigner with no place to sit. As our bus lurched downhill over the rutted roads and around hairpin (and hair-raising) curves, we all slid into each other constantly, bouncing mercilessly on the hard timbers of the box and skidding precariously up and down the narrow aisles.