The (F)art of Forward Posts

 In our primary school days, in small towns, the only means of public transportation between home and bus station or railway station was the 'Jutka.' An horse drawn carriage, which can accommodate around five persons including driver.  Invariably, two persons used to  be sitting at the rear, with legs freely hanging outside the hooded body of the Jutka, with access to fresh air and a good receding view of the roadside.One or Two will have to compress themselves inside with no view whatsoever. In the front ,one passenger can be accommodated, sitting alongside the Jutka owner driver, though a little squeezed. The rear side was always for adults both for safety and male hierarchical reasons. The middle  claustrophobic space was for ladies, who used to sport a lot of jewellery,usually on outstation trips. But for children, the front seat next to driver was always coveted.  Apart from an avant garde view,  and fresh air,  you felt very important.Sometimes, a friendly driver will even let you hold the reins and you can pull it ,shouting " Hai Hai." The horse was always a spent force, must have seen better days with landed Gentry, but was relegated to Jutka in  terminal days. With side blinkers made of tin and the weight of the back lean of Jutka hurting its already sore neck, it was a fit case for action under Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Act.

 But who cared?

There was unwritten Mutual coexistence agreement between Jutka owner and the geriatric species.

 There were also Long Term Agreements between specific users and  dedicated Jutka owners. 

We always hired Jutka of one Sultan Bhai.( I could never decipher how most Jutka owners were Muslims. May be something to do with Arabian horses and traders!)

In our enthusiasm to occupy front seat ,we used to cultivate friendship with Sultan Bhai.

In one such ride, I learnt the perils of being a  Copilot.

 We were to board a train to Chennai and Jutka arrived well ahead of departure time. I smuggled few Berkeley cigarettes from my father's round tin of 50 s  and passed on secretly to Sultan Bhai. Had upfront Confirmation for front seat through his smile displaying  stained teeth line, with few gaps unaccounted for.

 And gave a look of victory at my brother and sister who were squeezed in the middle row. 

My mirth was short-lived.

Sultan Bhai kick-started his chariot and few yards down, I was startled by a short bursting sound. This is a tyreless vehicle and so, where from? No pneumatic braking system too. All you do to stop ,is to pull both reins back and say 'Da Da.'

Few more yards, the sound repeated. This time with an accompanying odor . I stole a glance at my siblings, who returned it with grins brimming  with sarcasm.

When the repeat  acoustics happened every time ,the carriage hit a pot hole, to eliminate any doubt ,I sneaked a look at Sultan Bhai, for display of  any  intestinal unease. He was absolutely nonchalant,with the Berkeley glowing in his parched lips. But the odor from the frequent outbursts was  overwhelming even the smell of  the burning tobacco.

We reached the station in time and before my father could  hand over a carry bag to me, I asked Sultan Bhai, in a slightly embarrassed hush tone, as to the nature and origin of these  rapid fires.

Sultan Bhai was casual. He said" Thambi, those or  nothing but the farts of the horse. We feed them a lot of their delight, the horse gram meal. Which makes them pass  a lot of wind" 

I never dared to take the front seat ever again.

Harsh are travails of being a front runner !

That is the precisely the reason, why I do not react to or auto forward every What's App message I receive, now a days.