Whenever I sit to write down something I run out of ideas, like today. So I randomly pick a topic and pen down something on it. Indian Highways seemed to me an apt topic because it’s a unique experience travelling over here. I did not realize this until an NRI cousin of mine pointed me out. Indian roads are not roads, they are part comic opera, part horrific stories. It is a journey pungent with random events and unending drama which makes life more interesting. Here goes my views.
My earliest recollection of the highways is from my village. I used to visit my village once in a year with my family and we had to start quite early in the morning, not because it was far away but because the roads were bad and our Maruti although fitted by the manufacturers with all the suspension to counter the Indian roads, could not go beyond a speed equal to the number of undulations on the road to the root of the number of the fallen trees and rocks and broken milestones on the way.
We used to stop by for refreshments quite often on the way as traffic jams prohibited us from making our esteemed presence at the village earlier. The refreshments usually constituted of “garam chai”(hot tea) and the usual conversation went on “bhaiya, whats the reason of the traffic jam?” and as if waiting for us to ask the question, bhaiya used to explain everything in detail “sahib, Karsan’s cow who used to give 3 litres of milk everyday was run over by a truck on the road, it’s a ploy of the farmers on the other side of the road whose bullock fell in love with his cow, hence they are mourning”.(in the middle of the road!). The traffic then quickly moved on as the homicidal mystery was solved and condolences were given to Karsan.
“look at that audacity of the bullock cart coming the wrong way”, my dad used to yell now and often. How would he know that the bull dung filled the potholes on the road regularly and manured the road side trees.
I was so excited to see the roadside fields and hoped to venture among them some day. Long journey required a strong bladder but we are humans after all. So I asked my dad “where’s the loo”, and the reply was what I expected “behind the tree where else?”. Finding a tree was not as difficult as wooing away the village children who caught fancy of a babu from the city, following me. “aagha jao” I said in Gujarati and again amongst their giggles, “go away” to the same effectless effect. Finally somehow I relieved myself and got back to the car to find my father telling stories that at least you don’t have wild boars running after you when you went about your business behind the tree.
When I was in my college I used to stay in hostel which was situated right on the National Highway. So the regular truck drivers and the roadside Dhaba managers recognized me more than my professors.
The dhabas proved to be a perfect intermission between long journeys where you can exchange highway stories and gossip, eat some fresh albeit greasy food, and take some rest from the sweltering heat of the Indian sun. One such dhaba which had remained unchanged over the years was where we went for our food. The ambience of the dhaba shouted of simplicity and simple people we got to see over there. We shared the same table with the truck drivers and also shared their stories. The manager was an old widower who took the money for the food with the scrutiny of that of a tax collector.
But highways are also known for their accidents. Gruesome stories of collisions and casualties was a harbinger of caution lesson for us.
The inventive and ingenious advertisement boards was what I looked out for when I was on highway. The likes of “speed thrills but kills” and “better late than never” were always ignored but carcasses of collided cars always had an immediate effect.
Its when I am travelling in the city that I realize how boring the city roads are and then the scenes of gushing by fields and the whiff of dhaba food make me nostalgic and I long to be a part of the highway blues…
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