People in 1732kms

A follow-up post to Tea in 1732kms.

The one thing that you cannot escape on a long drive, is people. No matter what secluded place you drive to, you will encounter them. Sometimes a few, sometimes many. But you will always see them.

They come in various shapes, sizes, colour, accents and moods.

They sit at toll booths and pass out the exact same ticket for the exact same fare for the duration of their shift. They are walking by to a village close by, and you duck your head out of the window to confirm the right turn – usually after you have taken that turn. They might offer directions with a nod of their head, sometimes they will want to give you more details than you care for – sometimes they ask you to drop them on the way for offering you directions. They might make tea for you, serve food, or help you get to your designated room for the night. They smile at you: sometimes a fake trained smile like the one we see in airlines or hotels; sometimes the smile is genuine, for no other reason than just to have met you. Sometimes they stare at you – because city folk in a village usually stand out like, well, city folk in a village; sometimes they ignore you. Usually, folks I have met on my way are helpful; a few times, they didn’t bother. As we go into the interiors we see them wear very colourful clothes, which often hurts our overly sensitised sense of bland attire. They become gaudy sometimes, and we are quick to be sarcastically humorous. We see labourers on the highway, levelling it out for us in the heat and dust, while we are quick to roll-up our windows and switch on the AC.

We forget almost all of these people when the drive is done. We usually never take these portraits to remind us of these people when we upload photographs or blog about them. One wayfarer’s face in over seventeen hundred kilometres, however,  has stayed with me like a photographic impression.

We had just left Dhar, off Indore, on our way to Surat. The road up to Dahod is in a very bad condition, with very small smooth patches in between. Where I could, I was speeding, to make up for lost time. As one smooth patch was coming to an end, I slowed down. Green fields on my right, with tall hills somewhere far watched me with patience. In the foreground, close to my car, I saw him. He wore a light blue soiled kurta that still saturated itself well against the blue sky. His back was turned to me. As I came to an almost halt to go through a deep pothole, he turned – he wore a tightly wrapped white turban and a white dhoti, wrapped in a way I have never seen before. As I surveyed him from his bare feet to his face, I think, that’s when the mental shutter released. It was a face, lush with character and marked by deep, confident wrinkles for the years. The thick regal moustache ended somewhere, but was hidden by where the sideburns waved towards his ears; the facial hair a sharp contrast to his sun-worn dark skin. I’d like to think and even say, that our eyes met, but I was too mesmerised by what stood there, to remember. Yet, I remember those big, dark, sunken eyes, which were the source of the hypnosis of that brief moment. As if to complete this vision that I was beholden to, he moved his right hand slightly for me to see the most beautiful axe in his big hands.

The car moved on having climbed out of the pothole and found a semblance of a road. Both of us were speechless for a few minutes.

Most of your memories can be captured with a camera. Some memories, however, you are meant to capture and preserve in your heart.

Forever.

Tea in 1732kms

A follow-up post to Traffic in 1732kms

Those who know me well, know my love for the drink. I mean, tea, of course. Folks who’ll say no to a tea, anytime they are offered, are a rare species. Most people are content with about two-three cups a day. The only other person I know who probably shares the same passion for tea is a long-time blogger friend – Bishwanath Ghosh. I say probably, (a) because I have not met him and don’t know for sure, and of course (b) that he has written a book about having tea and “Travels In Places Where You Stop But Never Get Off”.

I haven’t read the book, but I suspect this post will be similar. Apologies in advance for any unintended plagiarism.

Tea, I must confess, was something I looked forward to during this trip to Central India. Chai, I’ll call it, because as soon as you say tea, it sounds very English, very bland. (Also, chai is not necessarily Masala Chai, as the Wikipedia title says, non-masala tea is also chai).

One of the perks of driving a car (especially if your co-traveller doesn’t drive) is that you get to stop wherever you want with an excuse of drowsiness. Not that I ever have to use an illegal excuse, because my friend, who has clocked more miles with me than anyone, doesn’t mind the frequent stops. She has her own taste of tea though, so she seldom shares the infinite variable flavours that I risk across the many kilometres.

Also, this trip was unique in a way that it was the first time ever, that I left a chai, after the first sip. It was in Dhar, as we headed west towards Vadodra, from Indore. It was a shed just outside a hut, by the highway, just as we exited the town. I have had really sweet tea before, but in this one, sugar was a toxin! (As) gracefully (as I could), I left the glass on the makeshift table, got back in my car and sped off. I’ll never forget that place.

Otherwise, tea has been a very good experience throughout this trip. Right from Taloli, where we had the first chai of the trip to the last one, just off Navghar. One of the best, however was in Bhopal. And we would have missed having that tea, if it weren’t for our very ill-informed tourist-guide-and-driver-bundled-in-one. He was a replacement to the original guy who was supposed to come, and it became obvious in the first seven minutes that he wasn’t a regular guide. After a while, when he gave us reasons to skip many of the places to see, we asked him what Bhopal was famous for. He didn’t have to think hard for the answer that came our quickly and honestly: Nothing. We were quite surprised. Every place is famous for something. At least there is a local lunatic. We gave him hints, about what Bhopal could be famous for. Cloth, leather, stoneware, anything? He thought hard and I felt he was making a genuine effort to think of something. Chai, he said, finally. You get good chai in Bhopal. Well, that was more than good for me. Take me to the best tea-stall in Bhopal, I urged him. Half-an-hour, later, we ended up being at Raju Tea Stall, for one of the best chai we would have on this trip.

Then, there was Guptaji’s Dhaba-cum-Restaurant at Sonkatch, on the Indore-Bhopal Highway. I liked the chai there, so much, I stopped at the same place on our return at the risk of missing out an opportunity to try out a new chai! And while I was taking this photograph, Guptaji himself walked up and introduced himself as the proud owner of a place that serves this supreme chai.

 

Very few people I know, can make consistent chai. It is, in my opinion a great art. And as we get exposed more to statistically-determined health risks, about anything that we do, inconsistency has become quite the hallmark of chai-making. People want less sugar, less milk and a light chai. Almost hot water, sometimes. Then there are those who make chai in milk only, leaving a creamy layer on your palate. Then, there are a few, like Anna, who didn’t care about your thoughts about how tea should be made. He made it in his own unique way.

Chai, for me, over the years, has become a cartographic tool.

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Traffic in 1732kms

A follow-up post to Life in 1732kms

Some of my friends, who have left the country for a while, often tell me that “India is happening” and I am lucky to be in the right place, almost saying that it was a good idea that I chose not to leave the country, when it wasn’t as happening. I usually agree with them, don’t quite argue on the situation that really exists, feel good about it and let them feel good about it.

I often wonder, how the guys during the Renaissance felt. That is, the folks who lived and were young when it occurred, not for those who read about it later. While I will never know it, I think I feel the same way. I live in a country that is at the crossroads of being the best place to be live in (in the future), but isn’t there yet. And since it is a crossroad, for various reasons, if it takes the sharp left (or right), we’ll have a very interesting could-have-been story.

Most of the 1732kms that I travelled in the last week of the December of 2010, were on roads that wanted to be more than they have always been. Not just to bear more vehicles, but to be smarter, faster and smoother. Some of the roads have already achieved that, some are in the process and some are only yearning for it. I had a good share of the best and worst roads that week.

One of the worst patches, was from Indore, MP to Dahod, GJ. Work is on along this patch to make this into the short-sighted dual carriageway that is a hallmark of NHAI, but it is bone-crushing in it’s own way.

The highlight of these 1732kms (and why we took an off route) is a different story altogether. No suspense; it was approximately a 20+km traffic jam, just as we left the border of Maharashtra into Madhya Pradesh. Starting at Hadakhed and ending just before Sendhwa, all through Borghat. Analysing traffic jams is fun, if you aren’t the kind that gets frustrated easily – it is an academic exercise, but when you have nothing else to do, it serves useful purposes.

In the five and a half hours that I spent in Borghat, I learnt that there are three levels of complexity that cause such traffic jams.

For one, trucks in India are overloaded to no end. The limit of loading a truck is very well-defined, actually. If it will stay on the truck, load it. What would usually take three trucks to transport, we manage in two (sometimes, horrifically so, we manage in one.) So the traffic jam problem, really starts with cost cutting – at the cost of safety. Don’t get me started on cost-cutting; it is a synonym of short-sightedness: let that suffice for now. Overloaded trucks have a tendency to topple, and two of them did, on this patch. I saw one overloaded truck trying to get out of the way for us, doing a wheelie — and I am not exaggerating. It, no doubt, was a factor of the overloading.

Secondly, we have a very inefficient and untrained traffic policing system that is grossly underpaid to even think twice about refusing bribes. I am sure (but I don’t know this for a fact) that there is a law that disallows a truck to be overloaded. Weigh-bridges at every possible junction stand witness to the potential existence of such a law. Further, (in most places) we have no limits or scheduled times regarding when certain types of vehicles are allowed to ply on certain roads. I remember, way back, in the ’70s, I believe, the Khambatki Ghat, used to be closed at night to avoid accidents. It was a single carriageway then.

Finally, you and I are the one who screw up the most in a situation that is such trucks make worse. We cut lanes, disrupt traffic coming from the opposite side — because we have overwhelming faith in our small and manoeuvrable vehicles. When all the trucks are lined up like an army, we break ranks with gay abandon and rush to meet the oncoming traffic. This, unfortunately is not a highway phenomenon: I have seen this happen even in Mumbai – which I believe has one of the most disciplined traffic etiquette. I am not against overtaking, but the manner in which we do it – defies logic and reason.

Just after Hadakhed, NH3, Mumbai-Agra Highway (Photo taken between Sangvi and Palasner)

But, being there – for those five-odd hours was cathartic for me. Late in the night, with a few headlights directing rays in an almost laser show, a part of me felt peaceful. The other part was utterly frustrated – but I ignored that part. I was able to imagine this under-construction-road, how it would be when it was all done, when we would not give another thought to the travails of those that tread this path when it was being built. I allowed it to become a forced instance for me to stop and think of all the things that have bothered me for long. My friend, tired from navigating for almost 14 hours took a nap. I shut down the car and got out to watch the stars. To be on the incline of a tall hill at night is a revelation. The stars don’t really talk to you; they don’t send messages; nor do they have answers. To get out of your car (because you have no choice) and sit on a ledge that overlooks a far away city, identified only by the lights that it chooses to leave on at night, and wonder at a life — is a privilege. It is a rare experience. To be with a group, but distanced by vehicles that came between us, and therefore be alone — is a privilege. As I sat on the ledge — I remembered what my driving license said on the back cover: Driving is a privilege, not a right. I felt thankful.

A truck driver had got out his kerosene stove and was cooking food. I asked him how long he had been in this jam. He said, “12 hours.” I smiled. I asked him what he would do if the traffic started moving suddenly, with a dart of my eyes to his stove. He shrugged, said nothing. In the moth-eaten blanket of a sky, my life reflected an image, mocked me.

I was sure we would not be able to reach our destination in good time. By the time we would reach Indore, we would really have to wake up hoteliers to give us rooms. It didn’t matter much to me – I was not so sure of my friend and his family in their vehicle, a few trucks behind. (Later, I was to learn, to a happy surprise, that we shared an interesting DNA for adventure — the matter for another post)

We of course, as you may have seen in the map in the earlier post, chose not to return by NH3, and chose to come through NH8 via Vadodra and Surat. The Indore-Bhopal highway, however, was a pleasure – a driver’s dream come true. Somehow, all through the trip though, a line of truck made our hearts sink, bringing memories of that Christmas night that we spent stuck for no reason. Luckily we didn’t encounter any jams as severe as the one on NH3. But it left a lasting impression.

Part frustration – part experiential. And while I am not sure how my other five co-travellers experienced it, I choose to remember the experiential part of it.

What’s an adventure, if you have already decided what to expect out of it.

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