‘Aage peeche ho ke baith jaao, six sawaari ki seat hai’. (Please adjust and make room for the sixth passenger).

It is peak summer. The bus is packed with people, like sardines in a tin can, with all the sardines wearing backpacks. The last row is designed to seat only five people. Yet, the conductor of the bus, who looks like the third pillion rider of a 100cc bike in a small town, hisses at the naive back-seat dwellers. He wants to accommodate one more passenger in the last row and vacate a few square inches of standing space for another commuter. This additional fare will go to his own pocket, while the owner of the bus, most likely a local politician, won’t know. The driversahab is in it as well. His cut is secure, so his eyes are constantly scouting for walking currency notes on the highway, for him to hit the brakes and scoop them up — much like a Super Mario brother collecting coins.

It is the late 1990s, and I am travelling to Ranchi. There is no Jharkhand yet. There is a layer of corruption over everything. Most people are preparing hard to reach a position where they can be harmlessly corrupt. The bus ride is long, and the roads are from the pre-Gadkari era. And I calmly absorb the bumps over........

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