Miss you, Mama!

They’re wrong when they say a man's body is two-thirds water. I'd say it's composed almost entirely, of his mother. You might say an old man's feeling uncharacteristically emotional on Mother's Day, but I could prove to you that a Mom is easily the most powerful person in a man's life (and I mean not just the Indian man's life, as some feminists are fond of ranting), and quite certainly the most lasting influence.

At the scientific level this is an easy enough concept - everyone agrees that a child 'learns' mostly during the first 15 yrs of his existence and that is generally the phase where the mother's influence is greatest, so QED. On the other hand, if you’re the filmy-type, all you need to do is point to the iconic ‘Mere paas Maa hai’ to assert a mother’s all-important role in a son’s life. If you're more Shakespearean in your outlook, you might be inclined to attribute this primacy to the famous Electra Complex. And of course, if you belong to a rare matriarchical or matrilineal community, this will again be pretty obvious, as you’d have sadly learnt by now that you will never inherit your mother's property unless you're female.

But no: as you'd have guessed, my point is a little more universal, and covers all types of men and women, everywhere. A mother, is indeed, the person who quite literally shapes a child, thus determining, to a very large extent, the course of his/her future life. Of course, the father, peers and the spouse all play a significant role, but never quite like that of the mother. As a 49 year old, I therefore have no compunction in admitting that, blood IS thicker than water. And on Mother’s Day, not only do I feel an all-encompassing surge of love for my late mother, but strangely, also a latent tinge of jealousy against my wife – who I realise, has had a stronger role to play in the lives of my sons!

So what do I salute my mother for, in making me what I am? Not the big things, you’ll notice, but the small ones, which as we all know from experience, are the ones that really count, when push comes to shove.

Brush your teeth, make your bed and keep your cupboard tidy
Things that most mothers teach most children, but only a few really learn, especially boys. She was ever so orderly about everything: her personal effects, sheets, curtains, kitchen: everything thing at home. To this day, I remember how she’d catalogued and kept her collection of cassettes and videocassettes—it would put any library to shame. The big point: if a person can’t be tidy and orderly in his living, his mind will always be cluttered.

Do it yourself, even if you haven’t learnt how
A million things you might think mothers reserve for their daughters, I got to learn from my mum - how to thread a needle, make a round roti, sweep the floor, bargain with vegetable-vendors, pack woolies with naphthalene-balls, wash my undies - all came in very handy when I had to set up home. And I had to do that multiple times as a bachelor, as well as a married person, in different cities.
The big point: Dirty your hands even with things you think you’re not meant to do—you never know when they come in useful.

Be bold to venture where no one’s been before
As a person displaced by Partition, Swaran (my mother, meaning 'gold') went through major trauma as she grew up and her family found feet in Delhi. Maybe that was how the explorer/fighter in her came to the fore, making her do things you wouldn’t associate with a woman of her time: excelling in sports, taking up a job, falling in love with and getting married to someone her family did not approve of, manage a home for a long period when her husband was away overseas, joining him and setting up home in England, learning how to drive post 50: the list is endless.
The big point: go where others haven’t been before, and you’re sure to find the treasure—even if it’s in the journey!

Have faith and the good times shall come
The ability to be patient and wait for the tide to turn, is something most boys must learn but many can’t seem to manage. I’ve seen my mother manage home with virtually nothing in her purse, but an unwavering faith in her husband’s and her ability to survive. If I’ve learnt how to dig in and believe in oneself, even when the chips are down, it’s very largely thanks to Mama.
The big point: What goes up, must come down, and vice-versa. The sooner you understand it and stand aside, the easier it will be for you to catch it at the right time!

Others before yourself
That mothers sacrifice for their husbands, children and home is common legend. But to see your mother give up everything for you is really inspiring. If you’ve seen your mother give you everything you’ve ever wanted, even at great personal discomfort and pain, how would you not learn to give of yourself!
The big point: Do unto others as you would others unto you and you’ll find that it works!

Roadrunning (or, Bombay to Delhi in 22 hours)

“It’s not possible.” “You’ll fall asleep.” “Your responses slow down as you grow older.” “And, there’s no one to share the wheel either.” These, and other such diatribes were hurled my way when I suggested we drive Bombay to Delhi, non-stop. To me it seemed the most natural of progressions, but to my wife and sons, this was akin to another insane last-ditch effort that ageing men take to, to look and feel younger.
For once, I put my foot way down, all the way to the floor-board. And announced that this was indeed what I was going to do, and if my wife preferred, she could fly instead.
And so here I was, settled in the driver’s seat (with my wife in the sleeping one), peering out into the darkness, as I turned on the ignition, early morning on 28th May 2009, feeling much like Alexander must have when he set off from Persia, or Columbus as he set sail, many, many years before me.

Bombay 4.16 am
As we whizz past dogs barking randomly, slum-dwellers blissfully sleeping on road dividers and the odd cars straggling home after a late night on the city roads, I reflect on my past life, which I’m quite certain, was that of a trucker. For there’s something about experiencing places through driving—a flavour I insist you can’t get by any other means of transport. At this hour, Bombay is so peaceful, and thankfully navigable. It takes less than half an hour for us to clear the distance between Versova and Dahisar, and to be in the midst of the Western Ghats, purring on quickly yet firmly, in line with our resolve.

Toll booth short of Manor 5.10 am
A longish queue awaits us at this early hour as we strike the first of the million toll-booths that have now become characteristic of road travel on Indian highways. As we try and weave our way past sleepy, monstrous lorries, I see four whores on the other side of the road. Placed strategically just after the toll barrier, and close to an inviting pile of concrete pipes big enough to setup home in, they’re sure to catch the fancy of weary truckers headed into town. For the truckers, this is surely the last bit of heaven before hitting the big bad city, and for the sex-workers, welcome last earnings before they head back to their hovels and infants. I shake my wife awake and even as we nudge forward to pay obeisance at the booth, we see a couple disappear into one of those huge pipes.

Talassery near Mah-Guj border 5.55 am
A drive through the Ghats in twilight remains one of the rare wonders I have seen, in this world. The ancient trees, the eroding hills and the fragile ecosystem barely stirring to life seem to remind you that soon, if mankind’s not careful, such sights will disappear, probably giving way to more soot and grime-washed monolithic skyskrapers with narrow slum-lined roads and urban dismay that we just came out of, barely an hour away.
The first golden rays as the sun emerges to our right also reminds me of the bare elements we truckers so take for granted by now: earth, wind, water and the sun! I’m reminded of the setting sun reflected in the lake as we’d driven into Udaipur on the drive to Bombay a couple of days ago, and a thousand other instances when we’ve stopped on a high mountain road just to witness a sunrise or a sunset, or at the gushing of a waterfall deep below and the rainbow it creates, and marveled at how each time, we’ve been really touched by these awesome sights! If you can’t believe how these can move you as you traverse the countryside outside of the cities, you ain’t seen nothing yet: and I’d urge you to take a really, really long drive.

BP station short of Navsari 6.40 am
Our objective behind starting so early is to make good time especially through the busy industrialized belt of Gujarat that one must pass through when on NH8, one leg of the Golden Quadrilateral. Having already crossed Atul and Vapi, we must stop for a leak and chai just before we enter what’s the most tedious part of this journey: the 225 odd km from Navsari, through Surat and Bharuch to Baroda. This stretch is made tough not only by the busy traffic, but also by the still ongoing four/six-laning work on the highway. As we stop by at a BP Petrol Pump which has toilet and restaurant facilities, we brace ourselves: it once took us as much as 5 hours to cross a 150-km bit on this stretch!
Surprisingly, the restaurant is already stirring to life and has tea and ‘nashta’ to offer: I make a note of how franchisees can make a difference to business, by contrasting this to the behaviour at the Udaipur Circuit House on the way up, where we were told it would not be possible to get anything other than bed-tea before 6.30-7.00am! Not just this alacrity: I believe Petrol Pumps have the potential to massively alter the dreary conditions of long-distance driving—and it’s only slowly that petroleum companies are waking up to their potential to be the oases of the highways. And in this endeavour, I seriously believe the franchise model is much better than the COCO (Co-Owned-Co-Operated) one, a point that I shall return to later.

Baroda 9.25 am
My wife insists that on the way up, she’d counted 7 flyovers (generally by-passes) under construction on the stretch between Surat and Bharuch, which slowed down the heavy traffic to a crawl. To our pleasant surprise , we negotiate all of them (and the 2 more which she’d obviously forgot to count or remember), quite breezily. Quite obviously our early start has given us sufficient headway and we zip past as the industrial chimneys are wheezing to life, in their daily habit of spewing chemicals and pollutants to choke an unsuspecting population that proudly welcomes ‘development and progress’ in Gujarat.
Ironically, we pass a mini-truck carrying cows (which of course are packed like sardines, and in a standing position, are dumbly trying to make sense of how travel has changed for them in these industrialised times) and amusedly I remark how this new image of ‘Cattle on wheels’ could well replace the older ‘Cattle on Road’ one as India finds its rightful place in the global economy.
That Gujarat is clearly on a faster path towards development is patently visible on this stretch: the innumerable factories with workers unmindfully crossing the road on their way to work, criss-crossing trucks, mini-trucks and 3wheelers ferrying goods and raw materials, hundreds of ‘Hotels’ (which by the way is just an euphemism for dhaba or restaurant at best) dotting the highway, and the unmistakeable chemical smell in the air are all vibrant indicators of Narendra Modi’s success. If I had some time, I note, I would’ve been easily able to shoot a documentary for his pre-election use!
To my pleasant surprise, we by-pass Baroda a good half-an hour of my estimated time, and ease onto the 90 km ‘Expressway’ between Baroda and Ahmedabad, which is proudly proclaimed as one leg of the ‘National Expressway or NE1’ on billboards (to the best of my knowledge there is no such project, so this seems more of Modi-ish chest-thumping to me). Whatever the case, this stretch is pure pleasure to drive on and you cover the distance in a mere 40-45 minutes: helped by the high toll that keeps many truckers and buses away, and a well-maintained straight, six-lane track that reminds you of the autobahns of Germany.

Udaipur 3.40 pm
Continuing with our good streak and having come roughly halfway, we ease out of Gujarat into Rajasthan at the Ratanpur border in the afternoon, just after 1 pm. By now, the traffic has thinned (it’s a sweltering 45 degrees outside), and the green vegetation that we encountered right upto Himmatnagar gives way to the sparse bushery of the approaching desert-state.
We’ve been frugal with our food intake so far: just eggs, sandwitches and water consumed in bits since the morning and a shared dosa at our last stop just before Ahmedabad. This is because a. we want to feel light and alert, and b. I have this unexplained desire to have ‘dal-baati’, something we know will be available only when we cross into the princely district of Udaipur.
The drive through the hills before you touch Udaipur is awesome: rugged, cut rock-face, undulating hills and the illusion of water on the road (caused as we know from our physics lessons, by refraction of light on really hot days). Before the days of the Golden Quadrilateral, this used to be tricky terrain: narrow winding road with trucks often blocking the right lane, in their struggle to negotiate the climbs with their heavy loads. And the rare petrol-pump that you so nervously looked out for, if you were short of fuel. Things are easier now: there are many more petrol-stations (fuel is cheaper in Rajasthan than in Gujarat and I guess land is cheaper!), but you still come across a couple of upturned lorries each time you negotiate this picturesque 100-km odd-stretch.
We manage to locate a tiny dhaba that’s frequented only by truckers, offering daal-bati. In that oppressive heat, we sit on charpoys and consume hot, red, watery daal with freshly baked baatis doused with generous helpings of pure-ghee and chilly-achar, and understand how desert-folk beat the heat with their colourful food.
We finally by-pass Udaipur a little behind schedule, but are hopeful that the drive to Chitorgarh (via NH 76 which branches off from NH8 at Udaipur, to meet NH79 there before continuing onwards to Kishangarh on the Quadrilateral) will be a relatively easy one, as there’s hardly any traffic.
As you bypass the spectacular town of Chitorgarh that’s carved on a hillside, and made famous by Maharana Pratap and Chetak, you’re reminded of the alternate route to Mumbai, which passes through Indore, Bhusawal and Nasik, had you not opted for the one passing through Gujarat. Apparently the roads there are still being upgraded, so it’s not a wise decision to take that option at all.

Kishangarh 7.10 pm
The long and straight NH79 from Chitor to Kishangarh, passing by the textile town of Bhilwara and the garrison town of Nasirabad is rather green (as it passes through the eastern part of Rajasthan, leaving the drier, but to me more charming, hilly regions of Jaisamand, Beawar and Ajmer to the West) and an easy drive: traffic is sparse and the sun is now setting, bathing the undulating countryside in a deep orange.
We normally stop at our favourite ‘Chuni Halwai’ at Nasirabad, to pick up large, pizza-sized ‘kachoras’. These completely unhealthy (deep fried with oodles of spices and dal/pyaaz filling) but sinfully delicious numbers are a big hit both in Delhi and Bombay. Today, we intend to save the 45 mts of detour that this causes, and in any case, kachoras and kachoris are freshly prepared only in the mornings.
We stop instead, at another BP ‘Ghar’ petrol-pump, looking for ‘lassi’ before we hit the busier parts approaching Jaipur on our last leg. The ‘Ghar’ seems to be a bright idea gone wrong (as usual) in its implementation. One can understand the laudable idea of having a clean and cheerful stopover offering wholesome food at reasonable rates (thalis @ Rs 50 odd, if I remember), clean toilets and layover facilities even for truck-drivers. But what one can’t fathom is how the poor franchisee who must’ve been forced to put in substantial investment and adopt this model, could even hope to break even with this huge facility – designed for upwards of 50 covers at any given time, including an AC room that requires no less than 6-tonnes of air-conditioning equipment, running for a handful of customers that can be hoped-for on this route. If on the other hand, this was COCO, then it’s obviously a big drain on the company: the place had more staff than customers, and was serving a glass of nimboo-soda (which we had to settle for as there was no lassi) for just Rs 15 in an AC environment! We’ve seen a similar situation in such ‘Ghars’ before in Bikaner on a trip a few months ago: maybe someone from Bharat Petroleum should drive past some of their Ghars and see how to salvage the situation.
Which brings me to another point about our infrastructure development: the toll-roads. If you’re a trucker like me and has navigated the country before we knew how to spell t-o-l-l-t-a-x, you no doubt feel blessed to have world-class roads in India (and when I say that, I mean it, having driven all over Europe a number of times). But consider this: you must spend upwards of Rs 500 on a one-way trip on this sector. Now while that may not be a large sum for your pocket or when compared to toll-taxes overseas, you must remember that this cost approximates that of a II-Class train ticket! Does that mean that the million Nanos that will soon be unleashed on our roads will feel the pinch when accessing toll-roads? Probably not, but personally I hope they hurry up with installing RFID mechanisms in cars, that would make stopping at toll-booths and tendering exact change redundant!

Jaipur bypass 9.05 pm
As we turn-off at Kishangarh and rejoin the 6-lane NH8 that comes from Ajmer, we grit our teeth for the difficult stretch ahead. It’s dark again and the headlamps have been switched on. But that’s hardly the cause of our discomfort.
Truckers are often credited with good road-sense: in any discussion of road behaviour people often laud their discipline: how they adhere to the left-of-road, and move aside politely when you intend to pass them. On the other hand, it’s city-dwellers who zig-zag on highways in their fancy cars, creating unnecessary road-hazards.
Fact of the matter is that truckers do not follow road-ethics primarily because they know nothing about road-ethics. Not surprising, if you consider that most truckers are illiterate, self-taught drivers who believe that roughly 100% of highway-space is reserved for their trucks. They believe, quite simply, that their objective is to get from point a to b during the day at the speed they can afford, and if there’s a vehicle to their left, they have to overtake and move forward. Niceties like how long that is likely to take given their heavy loads is irrelevant, as is the minor detail of who or what is following them at what speed. In any case, perched as they are in their cabins they can hardly see or hear anyone behind them.
In this scenario, you can get infuriatingly angry when you intend to make good speed on modern highways. You’ll often encounter trucks moving at slow speeds like 40kmph, in the right, overtaking lane. Even if they drive in the left one, they have a sudden propensity to veer right just ahead of you, slowing you down till they pass the tractor ahead. Or, as is perhaps peculiar to certain stretches like the 6-lane 120 km one between Jaipur and Ajmer and the 4-lane one ahead to Delhi, you’ll find truckers hogging all the lanes merrily, leaving no headroom for faster traffic.
Too tired to curse, we make peace with the fact that this is going to be our lot for the next 350 odd km, and begin, much to our dislike, zigzagging across lanes to get ahead. The pent-up tiredness, that’s been holding up for 1100 km and 17 hrs now begins to surface. The darkness, and the interplay of lights and the drone of lorries begin to lull us into a rhythmic dullness, and the only thing that keeps us driving is will-power, and the occasional drink of cold-water (courtesy our ice-box, which accompanies us on long trips in summers).

Behror 11.30 pm
As we pull into Behror, the midway point on the Jaipur-Delhi leg, our mind is numb and limbs aching. We search for an ice-cream, and after a bit of search, manage to find a shopkeeper that’s rolling in his ice-cream cooler at the end of a long-day of work. A lick or two is refreshing, as is a quick round of stretches to get feeling back into those tired muscles, and we hit the road again, hopeful that we’ll cover the balance 90-odd km home in no time at all.

Daruhera 12. 20 am
Perhaps the biggest thing the highway teaches you is not to take anything for granted. Of course nature has a way of reminding you of your relative insignificance before its vastness: we’ve felt humbled on the Leh-Kargil road just looking down at the Zanskar deep down below, been on the edge when driving through snow-covered forest roads in Naldehra that seemed interminable in the middle of the night, or even stopped in the middle of our tracks as the road suddenly disappeared (when the road in the Parvati valley was washed away by flash floods). But more than anything, you learn that when on the road, anything can happen, putting paid to the best of plans. We’ve been in situations when a landslide blocked our way to a hill-station at the eleventh hour, delaying us by over four hours, or having to face an unexpected snowfall just as we reached a hill-station, prompting us to turn right back to avoid getting stuck here.
And that’s just what happens tonight. For just after midnight, we encounter a rare and inexplicable traffic jam of all places, before Daruhera. We try and get off the road, squeezing between the lorries and the bushes, to inch forward, but it seems to stretch for miles. At times like this you’re reminded of the subtle but real hierarchy on highways. Make no mistake: size matters on the road, and if you wish to co-exist, better recognize and honour this reality. Curse the truckers all you like, but remember that the slightest touch by those iron and steel monsters even at slow speeds, even when you’re completely in the right will ruin not just your car but also your trip. And in a jam, it’s wisest to stick to the rules and keep to your side of the road even if it pushes you somewhat back in time.
Engines get switched off, drivers jump off their vehicles and start pacing up and down. Not knowing when we dozed off, we get rudely awakened by a Haryanvi who thumps our car wanting to know if we intend to move or stay the night!

Gurgaon 2.02 am
Finally. Finally, we roll into Gurgaon. 2 hours behind schedule, tired, numbed and dulled, but all in one piece, and in an unscratched car. As I trudge the staircase up to my bedroom with great difficulty, I ponder whether to call my sons and tell them we’re home safe. After all, they’d been in touch with us all through the trip, eagerly wanting to know where we’d reached, when—keeping an eye on the old man, as it were.
Unfortunately, it’s too late to call Gautmik in Bombay—having been following our progress till 11.30 pm, he’ll be fast asleep now, as he has work tomorrow. Which is why we press the speed-dial for Saattvic in England instead, to break the good news to him. Only to be greeted by (you guessed it) “Er, aren’t you a bit old to be trying stunts like this, dad?”