Truck de India!

by Rajat Ubhaykar

  The AIMTC, in turn, refuted the charges arguing that it is a highly fragmented industry, which is always under pressure due to escalating operating costs; and that the tariff is decided by market forces. It appealed the order to Compat which quashed CCI’s order on the grounds of no ‘tangible evidence’.

  Which brings me to the question: What do you call something that everybody knows exists but nobody can prove or do anything about? I propose—a cartel. While this is obvious in the case of, say, Latin American drug cartels or oil cartels such as the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC), it seems equally applicable to the less glamorous, localized cartels that control one of the most crucial activities of our country’s economy—the nationwide transport of goods in India.

  It is soon lunchtime and we head out to the resident dhaba of the Transport Nagar: a grimy den whose sole redeeming quality is that it offers merciful shade. A cloud of flies hovers by the food. How does this arid landscape support so much life, I wonder. We order the only thing on the menu—dal-baati-choorma, the hardy staple of the Rajputs. ‘Yeh hamaare Mewar ka special hai (This is the specialty of Mewar),’ says Shekhawat.

  The dhaba owner picks out the baati—a blackened sphere of dough—from a vessel full of such spheres, pours out some dal from a bucket onto a plate and hands it to me. I examine the baati. It weighs on my palm like a cricket ball.

  It is said the Rajput soldiers of Mewar out on military expeditions invented the baati, by burying clumps of dough beneath layers of sand and letting the sun do the baking for them while they presumably beheaded an enemy or two. Today, I struggle to break the defences of the baati, armed with a flimsy spoon. But it turns out to be like one of those impregnable hill fortresses that abound in the Aravallis. After a brief tussle with it, I concede that prolonged struggle will only result in a deformed spoon. I discard my arms and attack the baati with my bare fingers. The baati finally breaks down.

  After lunch, Shekhawat locks his desk, plomps on his Bullet and heads off home for a nap, as he is wont to. Groggy truckers, likely prompted by grumbling stomachs, soon start arising for lunch. I accompany them to the dhaba, launching unsolicited questions in their general direction, hoping someone will respond. I broach the subject of Shekhawat.

  The salaried drivers are mostly clueless about the economics of their ‘trips’, and Shekhawat’s exact role in the process. But the owner-drivers tell me Shekhawat’s not very different from the booking agents. He too thrives on the gaps in information between truck drivers and himself. ‘We have long suspected that Shekhawat shortchanges us. But there are only so many commission agents, and it’s difficult to build a relationship with a new one. Changing routes can be a hassle. Better to stick to what we have,’ says Mukesh, a dark, lanky trucker clad in baggy, off-white kurtapyjamas that flutter in the loo.

  He’s not wrong. A detailed Mumbai University study prepared for the CCI reveals that the ‘freight charges paid to the truck owners have no relationship with the rate settled between the consignor and the booking agent’. A World Bank report observes that higher prices realized in the peak season are not necessarily passed on to the trucker. The yawning information gap makes this possible.

  Both the commission agent and the booking agent are complicit. Mukesh tells me that Shekhawat deliberately holds back a portion of their dues, citing liquidity issues, to ensure the drivers stick to his services in the hope of collecting them someday.

  ‘Saintisvi jaat kehlaati hain hum truck driver aur chhatisvi jaat hain yeh transporters jo hum jaise jaanwaron ko paalte hain (We truck drivers are known as the thirty-seventh caste and these transporters are the thirty-sixth caste who rear animals like us),’ he says.

  It’s a curious phrase. Saintisivi jaat—the thirty-seventh caste. Its origin lies in the Chhatis Rajkula, a compendium of thirty-six royal clans that are said to have lorded over medieval north India—the Parmars, the Chauhans, the Chandelas and so on. Saintisvi jaat thus refers to a group that subsists outside the pale of respectable society. That Mukesh uses this phrase to refer to truck drivers indicates the extent to which he has internalized his pariah status in society, which regards truck drivers like him with suspicion and hostility, like animals on the loose.

  Mukesh hails from Jaisalmer district, one of India’s largest districts, bordering Pakistan. He tells me his village is just eighteen kilometres away from the famous Pokhran nuclear test site, amidst the wilderness of the Thar Desert.

  ‘Until ten years ago, the sand would take over the road in Jaisalmer during the course of the day. It would become impossible to distinguish where the road ends and the sand begins. Because of this, many accidents used to happen. Since then, the government has done a good job of planting trees by the side of roads to hold back the sand,’ he says.

  There is also the matter of water. Dhabas in sparsely populated Jaisalmer are few and far in between so Mukesh carries plenty of water along with him in inflatable tyre tubes that hang by the side of the truck—his most precious resource.

  It is nearing sundown, and I am beginning to despair. I’ve spent all day hanging around the Transport Nagar, with no success. The place is dead. Not a single truck seems to be heading north, or anywhere for that matter. Shekhawat still hasn’t returned from his nap. Moreover, I’ve already checked out of the shady lodge I was putting up at, and come here with my backpack in tow. It would be such a disgrace to head back defeated, I think to myself. After all, I’m in the land of the Sisodia Rajputs, the most storied Rajputs of all.

  Even in the contested hierarchy of courage in Rajputana, the Sisodias of Mewar have established themselves to be the bravest, the proudest, and certainly the most stubborn Rajputs. They resisted invaders for over a millennia, taking on everyone who impinged on their sovereignty—the Delhi Sultans, the Mughals, and later, the Marathas.

  Even Akbar, known for the success of his conciliatory Rajput policy, was unable to persuade the Sisodias to kneel before him. While the neighbouring Rajput states of Marwar, Jaisalmer and Bikaner buckled, Rana Udai Singh II continued asserting his independence maintaining that ‘none of his ancestors had bowed down and kissed the ground’.

  In fact, it was in anticipation of Akbar’s impending attack on their capital Chittorgarh (it happened in 1567) that Udai Singh is said to have founded the city of Udaipur in 1559 as an alternative capital. It was a struggle that was carried forward admirably by his son Maharana Pratap, who waged guerilla warfare against the Mughals from the forested hills of the Aravallis after winning over the tribal Bhils.

  After contending with the Marathas in the 18th century, the first external power to whom the Sisodias surrendered their sovereignty without a struggle was the East India Company in the 19th century. (Which explains how they were able to retain and maintain such magnificent palace-cum-hotels).

  It would be a great disservice to them if I submit so readily. I tell Mukesh about my quest for a north-bound truck, which has so far yielded nothing, like the thin soil of Rajputana. He suggests I try my luck at a petrol pump a few kilometres away that many truckers headed north are known to frequent. Well… why not? That sounds like stellar advice. Wish someone had told me that some hours ago, and I would probably already have been on my way. I shake Mukesh’s hands in gratitude. I would’ve hugged him too, for this invaluable scoop of common sense, but that would have been unseemly, so I satisfy myself with an appreciative tap on his shoulder, and rush towards the Transport Nagar exit, racing against the dipping sun.

  Angrezi Wala Porn

  ‘Would you happen to have some porn on you?’ says the driver with an unsettling leer. ‘Angrezi wala (The English kind),’ he specifies, as I haul myself into the truck cabin. I’m dumbstruck, and a bit abashed at this candid request.

  For the last fifteen minutes, I have been hailing down trucks as they slowly emerge after a refill at the pump. Most of them grind to a halt, the drivers lean out of the window, I rapidly try to explain that I’m writing a book about their lives, and t
hat it would be great if they could give me a ride to wherever it is they’re going. It is difficult to make myself heard above the noise of the running engine. Some of them drive on. Some say they are heading south. One driver explains he’s going to stay in his village for the night, and that there is not enough space in his small home for me.

  And just when I finally succeed in convincing a driver, this question comes hurling at me. I contemplate sliding down the truck the way I got in and look for another option. But the sun has already set. The purple tones of twilight are giving way to darkness.

  ‘Porn? Of course not,’ I reply. But he is wise to the ways of the world. He points to my smartphone and says, ‘But surely, you must be able to play some porn on that.’ He’s got me. I rebuff him by saying that I’m not getting enough network. It’s just that drooling over a porn video together is really not how I want to commence this journey with him. It would definitely set the wrong precedent for the rest of the trip.

  I see that he is accompanied by a khalassi. I glance around the truck, and it dawns upon me why sex could have been occupying his mindspace. Their cabin is bathed in the dim glow of a single red bulb. Its walls are splashed with lurid posters of Katrina, Deepika, and Vidya Balan in bikinis. The lithe bodies on the posters, however, are those of random white women, with the faces of the actresses transplanted sloppily onto them, resulting in many a twisted neck that defy human anatomy.

  I have barely settled in this red light area, when we immediately stop at a dhaba right next to the petrol pump for tea. When I jump down, I see we are accompanied by two more trucks. Four men walk towards us. I learn I am the seventh wheel in a six-man crew that is transporting rolled steel to Rampur, a town on the banks of the Sutlej in Himachal Pradesh, over a thousand kilometres away. They’re a ragtag team, their aesthetic tailored to the hot weather, consisting of grimy, colourful baniyans and jeans.

  We proceed to hunker down in the dhaba’s parking yard, forming a loose circle. I notice they settle into the squat with a sigh of relief, like they’ve been waiting to do this for a while, the kind of sound I make as I crash on the bed at the end of a long day. As the conversation between them starts flowing, I realize I’ve never thought of squatting as a recreational activity, a posture of repose, a catalyst of social bonding, as a less touchy alternative to the huddle. I join the circle like it’s no big deal. But I can’t keep up the pretense for long. Five minutes into the squat, my legs start shaking uncontrollably. Electric currents of pain start shooting down my thighs that are begging to be extricated out of this unfamiliar contortion. In that moment, I realize years of metropolitan living and using commodes has left me entirely out of touch with squatting. It’s an acquired skill—the art of sitting on your haunches over extended periods of time.

  So before I disgracefully topple over in a cloud of dust, I quietly make myself scarce. In any case, I don’t understand much of what they’re saying. They’re conversing among themselves in a vaguely Hindi-sounding language, that I learn later is Mewari.

  Going by their boisterous friendliness towards each other, it is obvious they’re a close-knit crew. I find out they hail from the same village near Asind in Bhilwara district. ‘Gujar hain hum (We are Gujars),’ says Mahendra, a tough-looking youth with disheveled hair, wide, expressive eyes, and a range of rings and bracelets adorning his hands. Five of them proclaim themselves Gujars and even the lone non-Gujar—a Vaishnav Brahmin called Raju—emulates the rest in flaunting Gujar accessories such as a thick kada (bracelet) engraved with lions, ear rings, and a bicepband with supposedly protective properties.

  It seems to be a curious case of reverse Sanskritization. I mean, here we have a so-called upper caste person taking on the accessories of a so-called lower caste. Perhaps, the theoretical framework of hierarchy in caste really has outlived its utility, I think to myself. But it also makes sense, since in the hierarchy of the crew, Raju occupies the lowest rung. He is, after all, a twenty-year-old khalassi a month away from getting his commercial vehicle driving license. The others are experienced drivers, whose ages vary between twenty-four and thirty-five.

  ‘Langotiya yaar hain hum. Ek hi gaon mein pale-bade. Ladki se leke roti, sab hain humne baati (We are childhood friends. Raised in the same village. We’ve shared everything from food to girls),’ says one of them, to peals of squeaky laughter from the others. I shudder to think what sharing girls could possibly mean in this highly conservative part of the country, and once again, question my decision of choosing to accompany them. But what’s done is done.

  We soon hit the road, and I find myself in the truck with Mahendra and Raju. It doesn’t take me long to realize their comfort with each other is not just restricted to the sexual; it effortlessly extends to other bodily functions. Once in the truck, Mahendra uses a remote control to switch on the stereo system. It starts belting out Gujar songs, the tinny bass ringing in my ears. They’re real coarse numbers, whose lyrics revolve around drinking, loving, fucking, and whoring. But what confounds me is that the songs are also artfully peppered with actual sounds of belching and farting, the most rambunctious ones you can think of. I imagine a sound artist mixing fart sounds between the lyrics. What an unfortunate job that must be. But so creative at the same time. My limited imagination had certainly not contemplated the possibility of weaving in the most natural music we emit into the composition of a tune.

  My companions, however, are committed connoisseurs of this art form. They have an entire USB drive full of these songs, along with other love-themed Mewari songs, and even a Gujar version of ‘Brazil’. Their favourite, however, is an artiste named Gopal Gujar who performs in Bhilwara in partnership with local temptress Rani—a dancer par excellence, and a seductive belle, if Raju is to be believed.

  As we trundle down the highway, I realize their flat-topped trailer has much poorer suspension compared to Shyam’s truck. It turns out that trailers, unlike full-bodied trucks, are a much, much bumpier affair. I struggle to write that down in my notebook while being jerked around by what seems to be a constant low-intensity earthquake. It’s as if someone has turned on the truck’s vibration mode.

  We plow through the dark. The highways here are poorly lit, unlike Gujarat. ‘Raaste mein honeymoon karoge?’ Raju asks out of the blue, turning to look straight into my eyes. I contemplate, with some alarm, if this is a sexual proposition. What if my companions swing both ways? ‘Honeymoon matlab?’ I venture cautiously, matching his gaze. ‘Arre matlab sex. Randi ke saath (With a prostitute).’

  The first thing that strikes one about the highways of India, and Rajasthan in particular, is the creepy, wholesale absence of women—not a single sighting of the female form for miles and miles. To the extent that when you finally see one idling by the road, you tend to assume she’s a sex worker.

  Truck drivers in India enjoy an especially bad rap for consorting with highway prostitutes. When the AIDS epidemic was at its peak in India in the 1990s and early 2000s, policy-makers singled out truck drivers as a ‘high-risk group’—cross-country carriers of the virus who transmitted it from sex workers to their wives at home, and everywhere they’ve been at it in between. The AIDS situation is less dire now, thanks to awareness campaigns and promotion of safe sex by the National Aids Control Organization (NACO). But some things, of course, don’t change.

  Mahendra nods towards Raju and says, ‘Look at this guy. Totally decent. He doesn’t use alcohol, tobacco, ganja or afeem. As clean as they come. There’s just one thing he can’t do without. Bas ladki ka bahut zyada shauk hai ise. Kaam nahi chalta bina uske (He’s a bit too fond of girls. Can’t do without it).’

  Raju, who hasn’t even sprouted a full moustache yet, smirks jackal-like and coyly turns his head to look out the window. ‘It’s not his fault,’ continues Mahendra. ‘It’s the jawaani. He only turned twenty last month na.’

  Raju and Mahendra are childhood friends. While Raju studied till the 10th class, Mahendra stopped going to school in the 4th standard to help out
his family of agricultural labourers, something that left him functionally illiterate. In the sarkari school he studied at, education and learning were divorced from each other.

  Not that studying did Raju much good. Unable to find a job, he finally joined as a khalassi—an apprentice—for the princely sum of Rs 2000 a month a couple of years ago. He picked up the habit of visiting sex workers from his ustad, who hailed from the same village, before getting hooked. I glance at the darkness swirling around us and ask Raju, ‘But where do you do it? I can’t even see anything here.’

  ‘Jhaadiyon mein (In the bushes),’ he says. ‘Earlier, it would happen in some dhabas. But the government has cracked down on many such establishments. Now it mostly happens in secluded stretches of the highway, that too only in the bushes.’

  ‘Do you use a condom?’

  ‘I don’t carry one, if that’s what you’re asking. I hate using rubber. Feeling chala jaata hai. It’s the girl’s job if she wants it so bad. Though usually, her pimp keeps some handy,’ he says.

  ‘Why? Aren’t you scared of AIDS? And what if she doesn’t have a condom on her?’

  ‘Darte rahenge toh jiyenge kab? Waise bhi maut ko mutthi mein leke ghoomte hain hum truck driver (If we keep getting scared, when will we live? In any case, truck drivers like us carry death in the palm of our hand),’ he says, not without a touch of drama.

  But before I can continue further with this line of questioning, the three trucks in our retinue crawl down to a standstill in a coordinated fashion. ‘There’s a Sanwaliaji temple here. We always stop for prayer whenever we are passing this way,’ says Mahendra. As the American essayist Susan Sontag once said, ‘Religion is probably, after sex, the second oldest resource which human beings have available to them for blowing their minds.’