TRUCK DE INDIA!
Rajat Ubhaykar trained as an electrical engineer at IIT Kanpur, and went on to study journalism at the Asian College of Journalism after a stint in management consulting. A recipient of the PoleStar Award in 2016 for his reportage, his work has appeared in publications such as Mint, Outlook Business, Roads & Kingdoms, and Madras Courier. He lives in Mumbai, and spends his spare time reviewing books, collecting trivia, and exploring India’s archaeological sites. This is his first book.
TRUCK DE INDIA!
A Hitchhiker’s Guide to Hindustan
Rajat Ubhaykar
Dedicated to all the truck drivers who tolerated this nosy stranger in their midst
We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.
~ John Steinbeck
Travels with Charley: In Search of America
We are great wrestlers
Each morning we gird up our loins
To fight against hunger and nakedness
Making and breaking plans is our training routine
Tactics we employ are deadly
We seal our lips when we should speak out
We die of thirst when we should quench it
We vow to continue the fight when we should ask for bread
We bring down great wrestlers
By forcing their necks under our knees
We live like donkeys toiling in the fields
Even then we are great wrestlers
Each morning we gird up our loins…
~Lal Singh Dil
Satthar
(Translated by Trilok Chand Ghai)
Prologue
‘You’re planning to do what!’ exclaimed an old friend to me, his eyebrows disappearing into the lush crop of hair that fell on his forehead. ‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through?’ I hadn’t. It was the onset of summer. The sticky April heat was making itself at home in Mumbai, and we were lounging at our favourite dive bar with a couple of tall beers. I was about to set out on an ill-conceived journey, the mention of which evoked eager expressions of interest in polite social settings, and prompted incredulous snorts in more frank ones. My project, as I had taken to calling it, was to explore India, not by car, motorcycle, bus or train, the choice of saner people, but hitchhiking with those who call its crisscrossing highways home—India’s much maligned, or as my friend warned me, ‘deviant’ truck drivers.
I can’t say exactly where the idea came from. But I like to think it had been coiled up inside me since the time I first set my eyes on the open road, its boundless horizon representing a world of change from the boxed-in Mumbai of my childhood. The memory is still fresh in my mind. It was the late nineties. Summer vacations were on. My extended family was stuffed into two Tempo Trax—the men in the front, the women in the middle and us children bundled in the back—headed from Mumbai to our native village in coastal Karnataka. We were excited because it was the first time we were hiring a vehicle instead of taking the train—a sign of encroaching prosperity.
It was an exhilarating, exhausting trip, frequently interrupted by urgent, strangled calls for the vehicle to be stopped so someone could throw up. Songs from Kaho Naa Pyaar Hai played on loop—it was the only cassette we had carried—and the resulting trauma was such that I still feel vaguely seasick when I hear the song ‘Pyaar Ki Kashti Mein’.
Staring outside the window on that trip, the wind tousling my unruly hair, I remember being struck by a sort of epiphany, that India is bigger than the boundaries of my imagination, or anyone’s, for that matter. You didn’t have to go to the scale of the cosmos to imagine something vast—India was enough. Even as a child, it made me aware of the insignificance of my own little life, when confronted by the sight of India’s multitudes, its green fields skirting the highway, the pools of mirage water shimmering on the distant hot tar. I had fallen for India, heart, mind and soul.
It was also the first time I saw trucks in their natural habitat. I remember being fascinated by them— their vivid colours, their discordant musical honks that rattled my eardrums, the lingering scent of diesel fumes they left in their wake, the cryptic personal quotes that I hastened to read before we overtook them. In my juvenile imagination, truckers weren’t deviant. They were free as the breeze, cruising over the cheek of our vast nation without a care in the world. Naturally, the very idea of their life and the possibility of someday travelling with them appealed to me as the stuff of high adventure.
It was to be over a decade before this subliminal desire was fulfilled. However, I can’t say it was entirely out of choice. I had set out in 2009 on an impulsive trip from Kanpur to Shimla with a couple of college friends similarly thirsty for adolescent adventure. After a series of setbacks, we had found ourselves stranded on the highway twenty kilometres before Shimla. It was ten o’clock in the night. The chill was creeping into our bones. Public transportation had shut down for the day. After multiple failed attempts at thumbing down vehicles, we had almost reconciled to walking all the way back when a kindly truck driver, not much older than us, took us in, and agreed to ferry us to the city.
He had Bollywood music from the nineties playing on the stereo. We didn’t speak much during the brief journey, but after he dropped us, I fished out fifty rupees from my pocket as his well-deserved due. To my surprise, he firmly declined. ‘There’s no need. It was on the way,’ he protested. It was the first time in my life someone had refused to accept money.
I was intrigued. I wanted to read more about the lives of truckers like him. Once I returned to Kanpur, I remember scouring the internet for a book about truck drivers, only to come up empty handed. I couldn’t believe it. Considering the pivotal role they played in the nation’s economy, surprisingly little seemed to have been written about them. Perhaps, that was the moment the seed of writing a travelogue took root in my mind. As the saying goes, write the book you always wanted to read.
My resolve only strengthened over the next few years in college, which I spent listening to music by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Grateful Dead and The Allman Brothers, among others, which romanticized the inherently free state of man. Songs like ‘Free Bird’, ‘Truckin’ and ‘Ramblin’ Man’ almost harkened me back to a primordial state of man, when nomads and pastoralists lorded over the planet, a time when it was natural to not be stuck in one place. I grew increasingly convinced that truckers constituted a distinct subculture, leading rugged lives in the shadow zones of our desk-bound civilization. I began to envision them as romantic figures—lonesome cowboys astride their metallic steeds. My gestating project, however, was motivated not just by an angsty desire to escape the stifling constraints of careerist society, but by a craving for adventure, and curiosity about what lay in the vast world beyond the bubble I inhabited.
After graduating, I spent an unfulfilling year slumped at the desk of a consulting firm in Gurugram, crunching numbers on spreadsheets and changing font sizes in Powerpoint presentations, before eventually delving into journalism, perhaps propelled by this roving curiosity.
And a couple of years thereon, equipped with the basic tools of the journalistic trade, I felt I was ready. It had to be soon. A whimsical journey such as this is best undertaken in one’s early 20s, when life’s crushing responsibilities haven’t acquired their full force.
There was no itinerary, and hardly any semblance of a route plan. There couldn’t be. Goods transport in India is subject to a variety of dilatory influences, and I didn’t want to spend half my time tele-coordinating with truck drivers in varyingly loud stages of transit. The logistics would be impossibly frustrating. It would kill all the fun. I knew that if I was to emerge from this trip with my sanity intact, it had to be spontaneous.
But before actually leaving, I had to firs
t field a flurry of concerned questions from all and sundry. Some asked why I had chosen summer out of all seasons to travel. ‘Can’t travel in the rains, can’t take down notes with frozen fingers in winter, hence summer,’ I would explain. Others asked me where I would sleep. And where the hell would I take a dump? ‘Don’t know. Don’t particularly care.’
I was, however, not the imperturbable wall of confidence I made myself out to be. I wondered if my privilege would stop me from connecting with the drivers. Would the drivers accept me into their world? And would the actual journey through the highways of India in the scorching summer heat be as romantic as it sounded in my head? Or was I delusional to be doing this? There was also the question of safety. Many asked, ‘Haven’t you heard truckers are drunkards and sodomizers?’
In part, it was exactly this prejudicial attitude towards truckers I meant to dispel through this book. Truck drivers are an unfairly maligned lot, demonized by conventional society as drunkards, rash drivers, and whoremongers, to the extent that their role in popular culture is restricted to either crushing inconvenient people to their gravelly deaths, or treacherously impaling them with iron rods. I hope this book plays a part in humanizing their lives—their problems, their beliefs, and their hopes.
My intention was to document their experiences of the road, if only as a snapshot of the nature of transport in India. Havingly eagerly pored over the highway reports of medieval travelers like Jean Baptiste Tavernier and Ibn Batuta, I wanted to explore how much or how little the tenor of travel had changed since, and assess the innate civilizational continuity of India, through its roads. This book is a humble attempt to supplement this meagre corpus of highway literature. After all, the banality of long-distance goods transport in India is not without its share of culture, history, danger and thrill.
What also intrigued me was the cultural aspect—if truckers did constitute a distinct subculture, what were their characteristics? In my mind, the critical difference between truck drivers and bus drivers was that the bus driver goes home to sleep. The truck driver doesn’t merely drive on the highway; the highways are where he lives out most of his life. You can become a bus driver after clearing a driving test. But becoming a half-decent truck driver requires at least two years of training as a khalassi or apprentice, more than three years in the mountainous tracts, where the would-be driver is initiated into the art of negotiating the curveballs the highway tends to throw at you. Surely, these were hints pointing towards a legitimate ustad– chela tradition. What was it like?
At the same time, I thought there was some empirical value in the endeavour. Truckers are, after all, the blood vessels that course through the body of our nation, ferrying the oxygen of essential goods on the arteries that are our highways. And yet their problems had not so much as received a diagnosis, forget diagnosis, their symptoms had not been recorded. Countless reams of newsprint have been consumed in op-ed articles on the economy that discuss interest rates, fiscal deficits and other such arcane macroeconomic indicators. But what is this ‘economy’ they talk about, but an assemblage of countless transactional relations anchored in a system of mutual acceptability, i.e., money changing hands. In that sense, I wanted to explore the micro-economy of the highway and the human relations underpinning it.
I believed that the lived reality of truckers, their experiences of the road, would be a useful barometer of the economic health of our nation. The nature of their encounters with state officials would shine a light on the reality of rule of law in our country. It would be helpful in understanding what the ‘cost of logistics’ actually means in the course of routine transport.
However, at its core, this trip was the germination of my long-watered desire to see as much of India as I could, not just the beauty spots splashed in tourist brochures, but also its warts and blemishes. India, for me, was like a Matryoshka doll, that classic symbol of Russian enigma, in that it was sliced up into concentric spheres—sub-regions within regions, subcultures within cultures, units within units, its people drawing their identity from them all. I was hungry to see as much of it as I could.
My rough plan of action was to head north from Mumbai, hitching with truckers till I reached Srinagar, then circle back east, and at some hazy point in the future, touch Kanyakumari. It was a daunting prospect. I had little idea how long this journey would take, and whether I would manage to cover it all. But such was the nature of this trip. I was, however, clear about one thing—there was to be no tyranny of the itinerary.
With a little help from friends, I was soon able to tag along with a truck leaving for Delhi from Mumbai. After an endless week of anxious back and forth with the transporter, the date of departure dawned. I was finally off, a couple of small backpacks in tow, stuffed with the usual paraphernalia—my mother had insisted I carry a tube of Odomos—and a tattered copy of Vikram Seth’s From Heaven Lake gifted by a friend.
I could scarcely believe it. My fanciful adolescent whim was now an imminent reality. I was on the cusp of a journey whose trajectory would solely be determined by the unconditional kindness and unforeseeable destinations of perfect strangers. If everything went according to plan, I would have no idea where I would be sleeping the next night. Or perhaps, this very one.
Part One
SEX, DRUGS & NOMADS
MUMBAI TO SRINAGAR
Riding with the King
I’m in the truck. There are no divine blessings sought, no perfunctory ritual performed, just the cautious reversing of this 18-wheel colossus from the crannies of Bhiwandi onto the main road. Shyam holds down the accelerator, enough to make this motorized beast purr, and with that we are off, into the setting sun, to Delhi and beyond!
It’s my first time inside a truck, and the long journey ahead has me seething with anticipation and nervousness. The highway looms like an uncertain void, neither here nor there, shrouded in the twilight zone. But clearly, what’s a kooky adventure for me is just another day at work for Shyam.
There are five of us crammed into the truck cabin, which is roomier than it appears from the outside. It’s essentially a giant couch on wheels, partitioned by a gearbox, and saturated with holy imagery: a cartoonish photo of Sai Baba, along with posters of Shiva, Lakshmi, Saraswati and Ganesh. The centrepiece of the dashboard even has a compartment for incense sticks lit religiously every evening before nightfall. A plastic water bottle wrapped in a porous wet cloth is pressed into the ventilated section of the windshield. Shyam explains that the wind blowing into the face of the truck keeps the water cool, like an in-house improvised fridge. Pretty neat, I think to myself.
Sunlight streams through the windshield, suffusing the cabin with the tender golden hues that manifest in the hours before sunset. The driver Karnail Singh aka Shyam is a tall, taciturn forty-five-year-old from Kangra, Himachal Pradesh, dressed in a dusty checked shirt and grey nylon trousers, sporting an earring in his right ear. His dignified demeanour, good posture, and honest eyes inspire confidence. His face lights up every time he breaks into a smile, his stubbly chin jutting out like an outcrop seeking shade under a large aquiline nose.
The truck we’re in is ferrying a bewildering assortment of goods, comprising furniture, footwear, and motor parts. ‘Parcel maal,’ he calls it. Accompanying Shyam from his last trip to Delhi is Rajinder, a former trucker, current mechanic, inveterate raconteur, handyman and loyal friend rolled into one restless package. Rajinder is quite the character, a relentless chatterbox who recounts stories with vague beginnings, meandering middles, and abrupt hyperbolic endings. And he’s found the perfect complicit victim in me—a writer on the lookout for stories of the road.
The dust defines Bhiwandi. What immediately marks Bhiwandi from Mumbai is its lack of urban character. Cities like Mumbai are defined by their successful elimination of dust. They are erected by paving over grime, by conquering it through concrete. In Bhiwandi, the roads are but a weeny strip of concrete almost invisible in the dust, which dances in the wind restlessly, in step wit
h the music of the elements.
Said to have been founded by Muslim weavers fleeing the British in the aftermath of the revolt of 1857, Bhiwandi was a nondescript outpost of Mumbai until some time back, known for power looms and communal riots. But in the last decade, the unpredictable forces of the technological marketplace have shaped the town in its mould.
The e-commerce revolution has refashioned Bhiwandi as the Warehouse of Mumbai, largely due to its fortuitous location—just outside Mumbai’s octroi zone (meaning less taxes), and right at the intersection of the NH3 and NH8, which lead to Nashik and Gujarat respectively, onwards to Agra and Delhi. Its paddy fields have thus found themselves transformed into gargantuan hi-tech ‘fulfillment centres’ for the likes of Amazon and Flipkart. It’s safe to say that if you’re from Mumbai, almost every package you order online has likely kissed the dust of Bhiwandi before finding its way to your doorstep.
But for Shyam, Bhiwandi only means robberies, murders and dadagiri. ‘Raato raat (overnight) your entire maal can disappear from the warehouse. The gangs here specialize in breaking into godowns. They even bring a tempo along,’ he says. As we negotiate its potholed roads, a policeman almost immediately hails us down, and demands Rs 400 for the permit required to ply heavy vehicles in the city before 9 pm. ‘Entry tax,’ Rajinder tells me. On the outskirts, I can see many trucks parked idly awaiting nightfall so their drivers can pocket the Rs 400. Shyam, however, is quick to dismiss this as futile. The drivers anyway end up spending it all on food, tobacco and drinks during the waiting period, he says.
We soon approach the first toll tax counter. A hijra (transgender) in a blazing orange salwar kameez is standing right by the toll collector, cajoling ten rupees as ‘good luck tax’ from truck drivers bracing for the long haul. ‘Isse dua lagti hai—This accrues blessings,’ claims Rajinder, twisting back and whispering to me, his breath hot in my ear.
Truck de India! Page 1
