“Time spent in India has an extraordinary effect on one,” mused Tahir Shah. Yet, had he experienced the chaos of an Indian bus station, he might have also felt a range of other emotions—anger, frustration, and confusion. I’m joking, sort of.
It’s 6:00 AM at the Hyderabad city bus terminal, and we’re navigating our way through a sea of buses, cars, rickshaws, carts, and people of every shape and size. I’m here with my cousin, a Hyderabad local who reassures me that everything is fine. But judging by the confused expression on his face, he’s as lost as I am.
We ask for directions, but they only seem to conflict. We dodge buses that appear indifferent to our presence, and after an hour, we finally glimpse the 5:30 AM bus arriving fashionably late and already packed to the brim. Even the doorway is crammed with bodies, and a couple more people cling precariously from the door. I decide that’s probably two too many.
As my cousin converses with the information booth in various languages, I stand by, useless, since my Urdu is poor and my Telugu is nonexistent. After a much-needed breakfast and more wandering, we finally accept by 8:00 AM that the 6:30 AM bus isn’t coming.
“Plan B?” I ask.
My cousin suggests heading towards some hills or a jungle. Intriguing. One challenge of visiting India for me is that I rarely get to explore; while I adore my family, I also want to see India.
We jump onto another bus, each move feeling like a leap of faith. Somehow, he navigates this dizzying system, while all those squiggly lines on the bus signs remain cryptic to me. Riding these buses can be a mix of fun and physical endurance; on several occasions, we had to hop on or off while they were still moving. I’m getting better at landing without injuring myself.
Through a series of bumps and bruises, we end up in a small village bus station, conveniently located next to India’s version of Starbucks—Cafe Coffee Day. However, with Starbucks now in India, the name feels less fitting.
To Cafe Coffee Day: if you promise change, do it before we make our order. The current approach is infuriating. Maybe I’d prefer Starbucks…
The village is quaint, with dirt roads and a large Hindu temple. We sip coffee and hot chocolate, watching life unfold around us, and witness our bus come and go in a blink. Easy come, easy go.
Thankfully, I have my cousin. Without him, I’d probably be lost or worse. His calm demeanor finds us another bus heading in our direction. We ride through a series of towns, some large but still with dirt streets and wandering cows—a stark contrast to Hyderabad’s high-tech veneer. My cousin laments the underdevelopment in his home province of Telangana, feeling the resource drain to Andhra. This might explain the strong push for separate states.
Eventually, we’re dropped off on a dusty road. I attempt to capture a photo of a stunning building peeping over a fence, possibly a school. We hop on and off a few more buses, each time sprinting as they try to speed away, until we finally reach the jungle’s edge for just 30 Rupees each (about 50 cents). After inhaling enough diesel fumes, I yearn for the fresh air of the outdoors.
As a child, “The Jungle Book” enchanted me with its tales of Mowgli, Bagheera, and Shere Khan. But this jungle doesn’t match the magical stories. “Is this the jungle?” I ask.
“Well, not quite,” my cousin admits.
“So, what are we doing here?”
I feel like I’ve been tricked.
Dropped off beside the road, with temples behind us, it could be any rural part of India. We follow a few people wandering downhill past a massive statue of Hanuman. It becomes clear most visitors are here for the temples rather than the forest.
We hike through the woods, hop over streams, and climb up steep hills, nearly falling a few times. After exploring every trail and overcoming every obstacle, we’ve seen everything there is to see. Despite the bugs, it’s a pleasant day. I even joke about tigers lurking nearby, sizing up my cousin to see if I could outrun him just in case.
Outside the park, at a café, we sip Maaza and almond milk, watching village cows and hoping a bus will finally stop for us. This journey wasn’t about the destination but about the adventure and quality time with my cousin. We had only met twice before, first as boys 20 years ago, then seven years ago, and now as adults in 2014.
For the first time in 20 years, I stepped beyond Hyderabad’s boundaries. As we chased the last bus to take us home, it struck me—sometimes, the journey matters more than the destination.