Unstoppable

by Sonu Bhasin

  Kuldip also sat at the shop whenever he came home from college. It was a shopping hub and he knew that many women with their daughters came to the Hall Bazaar area to shop. He would sit so that he was seen by the shoppers. He knew that the girls passing by would steal glances at him and this tickled him to no end. He pretended to be oblivious to the girls walking past once too often. Sohan Singh was happy to let Kuldip sit at the shop as he knew his brother was a brilliant salesman who liked dealing with people and selling to them.

  Sohan Singh waited impatiently for Kuldip to finish his graduation and come back to Amritsar. The demand for paints was growing and the shops were doing good business. The factory that was producing material for the shops could do more. Gurbachan was still a teenager and needed to spend time at school. Sohan Singh ended up dividing his time between the factory and the shops. He could focus on the factory and production only if Kuldip was there to manage the Hall Bazaar shop.

  Sohan Singh had seen that Gurbachan was inclined towards manufacturing and R&D. He, therefore, preferred that Gurbachan spent whatever free time he had at the factory. Sohan Singh also knew that Kuldip was the better salesman. Thus, he wanted Kuldip to manage the front end of the business. Sohan again asked his brother to finish his study and come back soon.

  But Kuldip had other plans. He knew even in 1966–67 that Amritsar was not his destination. The world beckoned and he wanted to heed the call. Amritsar could wait a few months more.

  Six Months in 1967

  ‘I hitch-hiked through Europe in 1967. I slept in tents and met some wonderful people in those six months’—Kuldip Dhingra.

  Thirteen

  ‘Poori Umar Te Dukaan Par Hi Baithna Hai, Thodha Time Hor De Do’

  ‘I HAVE TO SIT AT THE SHOP FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. GIVE ME SOME TIME’

  While finishing his final year exams at Hindu College, Kuldip had started pondering over his future. He knew that Sohan Singh had been waiting for him to come back to Amritsar to help him.

  ‘My brother did not want me to study even after school,’ said Kuldip. ‘He always told me, “Ki padhai-shadhai karni hai? Koi lodh hi nahin hai [There is no need to study so much]. High school-pass is enough for a shopkeeper.’’’

  Only after Kuldip put to use all his persuasive skills had he got permission to go to college. Even at college, Sohan Singh would tell him, ‘Zyada padhai likhai na kar—kaun sa IAS join karna hai? [What is the need for all these studies? It’s not as if you’re joining the IAS].’

  Kuldip knew that he would have to start work as soon as he finished his college exams. But he was not even twenty years old and wanted to see the world before settling into the life of a shopkeeper. ‘I knew what my life as a shopkeeper would be like. Open the shop at 9 a.m. and then sit there the whole day; take stock, keep stock, take money, handover to customer, close the galla at the end of the day, close the shop at night. And this would be my life for six days of the week. For the rest of my life,’ said Kuldip with a small shudder. Shopkeeping, according to him, was a one-man job and not one that filled him with much enthusiasm. But he also knew that he had a duty to the family.

  The mid-1960s were the years of the flower generation. Hitch-hiking was the norm in the West though not in India. ‘Not many Indians had cars then, so hitch-hiking kithe hogi, [How could Indians hitch-hike when there were such few cars in India],’ Kuldip said.

  But in Delhi University, many young students were enamoured by the concept. Some planned to backpack and hitch-hike through Europe after graduation. Kuldip and a friend from Hindu College also made such plans. ‘But there were two problems,’ said Kuldip with a smile.

  The first was Sohan Singh Dhingra. There was a reason that Kuldip’s elder brother had been waiting keenly for the younger to come back and shoulder some of the work. Sohan Singh’s family had grown; he had two daughters by 1966—Anuradha and Preeti. With the expanding family came the need for more money and therefore the need to work harder. The expanding family also meant that Sohan Singh had to divide time between the business and the wife and daughters. Sohan needed another adult to share the responsibility. Gurbachan was still in school and unable to take full responsibility of either the factory or the shops although he had started going to the factory after school.

  Kuldip was in a dilemma. ‘I knew that my brother would not be happy if I told him that I wanted to travel the world. But I also knew that if I really wanted to do it, he would not say no. I also felt that if I didn’t do this now I would never be able to do it,’ Kuldip said.

  Even back then Kuldip was a man who looked at the facts and took a decision fast. He processed all his thoughts, and came to the conclusion that three months in the life of the business would not mean much and that seeing the world would only widen his perspective.

  The decision was taken. He now had to find a way to get permission from Sohan Singh. Kuldip went back to Amritsar and persuaded his brother to give him a few more months. ‘I told him, “Poori umar te dukaan par hi baithna hai, thodha time hor de do [I have to sit at the shop for the rest of my life. Give me some more time],”’ said Kuldip, his face taking on the pitiable expression it might have almost fifty years ago. Sohan Singh looked at his face and relented.

  With the first problem solved it was time to attack the second one. ‘India in those days did not allow people to travel freely,’ said Kuldip. India, after Independence, was struggling to find her feet and did not have enough foreign exchange reserves. As a result, those who wanted to travel had to get a specific permission from the government. As with any government approval, it was a tedious process and required copious amounts of paperwork. Further, the government would allow travellers to carry only US $7 with them. Not more. However, there was a loophole in the system. The travel-form request was waived off if the travel was a pilgrimage!

  ‘Sarabhjit was a friend from Hindu College and both of us decided that we would go together under the pilgrimage category,’ said Kuldip. Sarabhjit’s father had a printing press in Khan Market and had a thriving business. ‘His father managed to get us US $200 at a total of Rs 1,500,’ Kuldip added. The two boys located a cargo ship which also carried pilgrims.

  Both problems sorted out, the two friends were ready to go. ‘But what about the visas?’ I asked Kuldip. ‘Those were different times and most countries gave you visas on arrival,’ explained Kuldip.

  As they were preparing for the trip, the two friends realized that backpacking required sleeping bags and tents. These cost money, and Kuldip did not have the heart to ask his brother. Sarabhjit’s father came to the rescue and presented each boy with a sleeping bag. Kuldip, with his far-sightedness, realized that baubles and trinkets that were inexpensive in India may fetch a better price overseas. He put together the little money he had and went to Janpath in New Delhi. People go there even today to get bargains in jewellery, Indian clothes and mirror-work bags. Kuldip did the same.

  Janpath has a line of small shops that sell colourful handicrafts and other ‘Indian’ items. ‘I bought lots of jewellery items, some silk ties and other semi-precious-looking stones. These came in handy when I was in Europe,’ said Kuldip with a grin.

  Fourteen

  ‘Those Girls Fought Over Me’

  Armed with sleeping bags and small backpacks of essentials, the boys boarded the cargo ship. They were happy to find some other Indians travelling to the West on the same ship. They had been allotted bunkers in the deep recess of the massive ship.

  ‘But it was very hot down there,’ said Kuldip. No one spent any time in the bunkers or down below. All the travellers would spread their sleeping bags on the deck of the ship and spend time there.

  ‘We were young and had a good time. We talked and sang songs on the deck,’ he continued. Such was the fun quotient that a young captain in the army, travelling with his foreign girlfriend in first class ended up spending more time on the deck. ‘He and his girlfriend would spend all their time with us. She was very pretty and we loved having her arou
nd,’ said Kuldip.

  The cargo ship went to Karachi and then on to Khorramshahr in Iran. Kuldip and his friend disembarked at Khorramshahr to start their road journey. ‘Iran was a very different place in 1967,’ said Kuldip, with a faraway look in his eyes. Liberal and prosperous, it was unlike the India Kuldip had left behind. One of his friends had some relatives in Iran. Kuldip contacted them, and the two friends went over to meet the family. They helped the young boys plan their travel to Istanbul.

  The two friends got into a bus filled with locals for Istanbul. ‘On reaching Istanbul, my friend told me that he needed to go to Paris to write an exam. He wanted to take the Orient Express,’ said Kuldip. This was not part of the plan. ‘I realized then that he just needed a travel partner till Istanbul and that he had never planned to go hitch-hiking,’ said Kuldip.

  While he was not happy at being left alone, Kuldip did not want to change his own plans. ‘I told him I did not have money to buy a ticket on the luxurious Orient Express,’ laughed Kuldip. He thought that he had conjured up the perfect excuse. ‘Don’t worry, I will pay for your ticket,’ was the immediate response.

  ‘I was not even tempted to go on the train. I don’t like any obligation from anyone,’ Kuldip said.

  The two friends parted ways amicably. Now that Kuldip was on his own, he spoke to some local people to find the perfect way to hitch-hike to the UK, his final destination. To his surprise, he found that there was an entire mini industry for backpackers and hitch-hikers. There were camping sites all through Europe where the travellers could pitch tents and stay for a few days.

  Kuldip had a sleeping bag but needed a tent. His silk ties and trinkets came in handy. ‘The Turkish people knew about India and loved Indian things,’ said Kuldip. He was easily able to barter a few of the trinkets for a good roll-up tent. With the backpack on his back, the tent on his shoulder, he hit the highway to start the hitch-hiking leg of the tour.

  ‘I realized that there was a protocol to hitch-hiking,’ said Kuldip. Hitch-hikers would stand on the verge of the road almost as if in a queue. As soon as they would see a vehicle approach, they would stretch out an arm, fingers closed into a fist and only the thumb pointing in the direction they wanted to take. This remains the universal indication for asking for a ride even today. Willing drivers would stop, usually at the head of the queue and roll down their window. The hitch-hiker would bend down to ask the driver where he was headed. If it worked for him he would smile, wave at his fellow waiting hitch-hikers and jump into the car. If, however, the driver was not headed in the direction the hitchhiker wanted to take, he would wave a small thank you to the driver and would step aside. He would then gesture for the next in the queue to come up and speak with the driver.

  Kuldip did not remember his first hitch-hiking ride. ‘It must have been just one of the many drivers who stopped,’ he dismissed my question with a wave of his hand. But he remembered several interesting incidents during the trip. ‘I often used to be the only Indian on the hitch-hiking road,’ said Kuldip, adding, ‘and that too a sardar!’ Most of the hitch-hikers were Europeans or Americans. ‘Black vi nahin honde si, zyaada gore log hi honde si [It was usually the whites hitch-hiking, I did not see any blacks either],’ said Kuldip. A well-built Sikh with a turban stood out prominently. ‘Well-built and also handsome,’ added Kuldip emphatically with a naughty smile and looked at me questioningly with an impish twinkle in his eyes as if daring me to disagree.

  Many drivers would stop next to Kuldip and ask him where he wanted to go. Kuldip, never one to let any opportunity to get ahead go waste, would in turn ask the driver where he was going. On every occasion Kuldip would hop into the car or any other vehicle and go the distance. Most of the drivers were fascinated by his turban. The fact that he could speak good English also helped.

  Then there were drivers who would stop for a girl with her thumb out. ‘Yeh poora racket honda si [this was a complete racket],’ laughed Kuldip. Scenes we have seen in the movies would play out in real life on the highways in Europe. ‘If a boy and a girl were travelling together, woh munda chhip jaanda si jhaaridon wich [the boy would hide in the bushes],’ said Kuldip. The girl would wait on the road for the next vehicle. Invariably the driver, seeing a girl alone, would stop. The girl would ask the driver for his destination and if it matched hers would tell him that she was going to pick up her backpack which she had left strategically on the side. ‘As she would pick up her bag the boy would come out pulling together his trouser zipper as if he had gone to relieve himself just then,’ said Kuldip. He clapped his hands with glee and said, ‘Vechaare driver ka chehra dekhne waala honda tha! [The poor driver’s face used to be worth seeing!]’

  Kuldip remembers hitching rides on cars, vans, two-wheelers, trucks, buses and even a train. Somewhere in Europe he was waiting by the side of a road where a railway line ran parallel. He was surprised to see a slow train that was chugging along slow down even more as the driver of the train leaned out of this engine and pointed to Kuldip. The train driver hooted the engine and indicated for him to jump in. Kuldip looked around to confirm that the train driver was indeed gesturing to him. ‘I thought “why not?” and jumped into the engine bogey. We went some distance together. We talked and he even offered me a cold beer in the hot locomotive,’ remembered Kuldip with a smile.

  As Kuldip spoke, he evoked an era of the hippie generation, of camaraderie between strangers, and a world scarred by the Cold War. Strangers standing on a road became friends as did young people offering rides. Communist-leaning youngsters met socialists and capitalists and so on. But there would be no fights, no war of words and certainly no taking a hard stand against the other. Youngsters focused on demonstrating against the Vietnam War, on civil rights and voting rights; Martin Luther King and the Beatles were the prominent heroes at the time. The 1960 was also a decade of the power of peaceful demonstrations. Young people were the driving voice of empowerment.

  This environment of empowerment met the Iron Curtain. The Cold War between the US and Soviet Russia was at its peak in the 1960s. The countries behind the Iron Curtain—Poland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Romania, Bulgaria, Albania and, of course, the Soviet Union—shunned anything that had a Western influence. Even disco music and loud parties were taboos as they signified a Western culture.

  ‘I had communist leanings in my college days. But the hitch-hiking trip made me see the other side of communism,’ Kuldip said. Travelling through Bulgaria and Yugoslavia gave him a glimpse of the life of the common people under communism. ‘It was not only that people did not have money. It was just that they somehow did not look like happy people. As soon I crossed the border of Austria, I felt the difference. It was in the air,’ he said.

  The Iron Curtain, however, could not contain the exuberance of the youth. Young people were young people around the world. And when young men and women met and travelled together, good times followed. Young girls in Europe were fascinated with this turbaned man who could charm them in an instant. ‘My turban was not an object of inquisitiveness in the Middle East or even in Turkey. I guess those people were used to turbaned fellows. But the moment I crossed into Europe their fascination was evident,’ said Kuldip.

  ‘My brother could charm girls right from our Golf Links days,’ said Ashi proudly. From Golf Links to Sofia, the charm offensive continued to work. Kuldip, though reluctant to hold forth at length, could not help himself and related a couple of stories. ‘In Sofia I was in a youth hostel. There were other youngsters there as well and a bunch of us got friendly,’ he said. Youth hostels were inexpensive places to stay in Europe where the travellers could stay by paying as little as a dollar or less. In exchange the residents were expected to work in the hostel. ‘People had to wash plates, help in the kitchen and such stuff. Of course, plataan-plootan maine nahin dhoyi [But I did not wash any plates],’ he said with a flourish.

  There were two young girls in the hostel who were also travelling through Europe. One was a Greek and the other
was from Bulgaria. They and a couple of their friends started hanging out with Kuldip. ‘One evening we had all gone out to a disco or something like that. When I came out I saw that these two girls were fighting with each other,’ said Kuldip. ‘The girls were pulling each other’s hair and tearing at each other’s clothes. They fell on to the wet ground and wrestled with each other, almost like mud-wrestling! You know, I found out later that they were fighting over me!’ exclaimed Kuldip, not without a bit of pride in his voice. ‘The Greek girl was friendlier with me and the other one got jealous. Mere piche qichhad wich ladhai [they wrestled in the mud over me] . . .’ he trailed off.

  ‘What happened to those girls?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I moved on,’ Kuldip replied with a nonchalant shrug.

  There was a girl from Zagreb whom he did remember, however. ‘We were together for a few days. Not with her only, we were a group of youngsters,’ Kuldip was quick to point out. When it was time to move on, the girl gave Kuldip a ring with an inscription of JFK on it. He thanked her and kept it as a memento of their time together. ‘When I reached Austria I needed some money. I went to a pawn shop to see if I could get a few shillings for it,’ said Kuldip. ‘I realized then that the ring was of pure gold. I got a lot of money for it and I still remember that girl,’ Kuldip said softly.

  Fifteen

  ‘There Is a Maharaja in Our House’

  Kuldip worked his way through to Paris and then on to Calais. From there he crossed over to Dover and ran straight into the British wall of border control. ‘They asked me why I was travelling and where I was going, and then asked for my visa,’ said Kuldip.

  ‘What visas? We don’t need any visas. We are part of the Commonwealth,’ he bristled indignantly.