Road trip: To my native

The first case of COVID-19 was reported in India in January 2020. Not many paid any heed till the lockdown was declared. It was hard to ram the bitter truth down the throat about my quashed travel plans due to Chinese misadventures.

To spend my time productively, I buried myself in books. Their storylines were based in fascinating locations: Iran, Kashmir, Vietnam, and Mussoorie. I related the most with Ruskin Bond’s autobiography. He recounted several commonplace instances of his life with grace and appeal, resurfacing several of my own. They were rather commonplace instances yet stayed with me even after decades. Road trips to Kaimganj fall in such category.

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Every summer after the exams, Amma, Parul, Nupur and I, rushed to Kaimganj, a dusty town some 130 km from Kanpur. Usually, we traveled in the Pawan Express or the Passenger. Sometimes, when we were lucky, we got my grandfather’s jeep, a luxury without the need to rush to the station or queue up to get the tickets or stress to find a seat.

The real fun would begin when we left the city boundaries and hit the GT road. Nupur and I sat in the back. Mahindra jeeps of that time had a large flap at the rear, which could be rolled-up, creating a large window to peep out from. We would wave at other travelers. Most ignored us. Some waved back. The ones, who paid most heed to us were the truck drivers.

Sometimes I would get the front window seat. I would clutch onto it as if my life depended. That was THE seat to have – a proof of power and authority, invariably held by a man: grandfather, father or uncle – in that order. It provided unrestricted views through the windshield. The sun played hide-and-seek through the canopy of trees. The blue sky, which I didn’t appreciate then rarely offered any respite from the heat. The dark clouds would become a welcome sight. Afar I would see pool of water, which vanished the moment we neared it – dashing my desire to splash it all around. Only later would I know that it was a mirage – light and heat playing games with my head.

The GT road was not like the perfect 8-lane Mumbai-Pune expressway, with posh restaurants and expensive food-joints. A 4-lane road for most part would reduce to 2-lanes without a warning. Potholes were aplenty, which kept the drivers awake and aware. Large fields surrounded it on either side, with sporadic villages in between. Villagers didn’t need permission to herd their cattle through the road, thus jamming it often. Milestones were so old that several letters had vanished, creating severe confusion: ‘BILHAUR 68 KM’ read ‘BI_HA_R _8 KM’. Run-down dhabas never left the travelers, providing them with food and rest.

My favorite was Bajrangi Pure Veg dhaba. The hoarding was visible from a distance. At night, the stretch would be lit up with tube-lights wrapped in colored cellophane paper – yellow, red, green – with endless insects swarming around them. The road and the dhaba building were separated by a space of almost half a football field, where chaarpayis were laid out for the customers. Mango, peepul and banyan trees provided respite from the sweltering summer sun. Earth would give way to mud the moment it rained – not without emanating petrichor first.

Amma kept poori, sookhe-aloo and pickles for the journey in old sweet-boxes. Smell from the oil-stained boxes made us drool over the food inside. Thick layer of oil at the top of matar paneer that we ordered from the dhaba, never bothered us. The rusted ‘Outside food not allowed’ board ate dust somewhere. Cold-drinks were ordered at the end to ensure a nice burp. Burping meant good food rather than uncouth behavior. Since electricity supply was erratic at best, ice slabs were used to cool the drinks. More than thirst, it was color-blast of the drinks that enticed us: orange Gold Spot, black Campa Cola, grey Limca, green 7 Up, yellow Maaza.

A tube-well was installed by the owner of the Dhaba, who also maintained farms. Thick gush of water was so cool and tempting that I would put my head under its spurt and rid myself of all the heat and tiredness, readying me for the ongoing journey.

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With lockdown and exponential growth of corona, traveling seems like a distant dream. It feels terrible to crib about travel restrictions when people are losing their jobs or worse – their lives. At the same time, that’s exactly what I feel.

Someone enamored by books said: Books take you places you someday hope to go.

It isn’t improper to believe in the wise saying. Reading these books are only intensifying my longing for travel – and maybe one day I’ll visit those locales. But till then, I will put my head down and devour the words that are giving me views of the towns I will visit one day.