Truck de India!

by Rajat Ubhaykar

  Meanwhile, the transporters have their own reasons. They use overloading to maximize their profits. Freight rates are usually set in Rs per km per tonne, so a transporter’s revenue from a one-way trip is directly proportional to the quantum of overloading. Shekhawat in Udaipur had offered me the example of the 400-kmlong Udaipur–Sanganer route. He said a 21-tonne truck earns Rs 25,000 for a one-way trip if it is fully loaded according to the norms. Accounting for the Rs 16000 spent on diesel, bribes, toll charges and wages, he earns a profit of Rs 9,000. If the same transporter overloads his truck to twice its capacity by loading 42 tonne of marble, he will earn a proportional Rs 50,000, while his input costs will hover around Rs 30,000, earning him a tidy Rs 20,000 per trip, more than double what he would have earned if he had loaded the truck within its prescribed limits.

  Such practices are especially rampant in areas where the produced goods are of high mass density. Rajasthan, which is the second-largest producer of minerals in India, is one of them. It produces 90 per cent of the country’s marble output and is the second-largest producer of cement in the country. The extremely high mass density of Rajasthan’s mineral output makes it a state vulnerable to overloading.

  But in Rajasthan’s case, as in many others, the state government itself facilitates overloading by issuing circulars that legitimise it by imposing monetary ‘penalties’, even after the Supreme Court verdict prohibiting this practice. When I asked around at the Transport Nagar in Udaipur, the consensus was these circulars were the result of lobbying by powerful marble traders, mining companies, cement manufacturers and big transporters themselves.

  It’s not as if transporters aren’t aware that overloading causes long term damage to the truck’s body and tyres, and pushes up maintenance costs. So why then do they persist with overloading? Shekhawat in Udaipur had replied, ‘Short term mein faayda hota lekin long term mein hisaab lagaya toh ghate mein jaate hai (There are profits to make in the short term, but if you take a long term perspective, you’re losing).’

  He could well have been alluding to the environmental crisis precipitated by our fixation on growth and the relentless consumption that fuels it. In this broader sense, transport owners could be seen as merely mirroring capitalist myopia, in their inability to see beyond immediate profit.

  But there is an underlying logic here. Shekhawat says overloading is the result of two factors. Firstly, a newly bought truck doesn’t incur maintenance costs. Secondly, transporters have loan repayments to make in the first three to four years of the truck’s lifetime.

  ‘During the first two years, there are no maintenance costs relating to engine parts and the truck body,’ he said. ‘Insurance, permit, fitness are all in place, so they make a killing in the first year by overloading. The next year, they just change the tyres. After that, they overload, but only as much as the truck can take.

  ‘We usually have a “setting” with the RTO officials. But while intra-state is easy, inter-state transport is difficult to fix,’ he said. This ‘setting’ could take the form of one-time monthly payments directly to the higher-ups or be disbursed in instalments along the way to pliant officials. The World Bank also observed in 2005 that ‘vehicle overloading is a very common practice and truckers report that as much as 10% of their freight revenue may be taken up in payments to facilitate passage of overloaded vehicles.’

  Meanwhile, the third face of this trinity—the goods consignors—resort to overloading so they can send all their goods in one truck, instead of having to parcel it out among several trucks, thus minimizing their freight costs. In fact, after the Supreme Court judgement, transporter lobby groups had shifted the blame for overloading on to the consignors, complaining that ‘it was owing to the insistence of the consignor that the transporters had to overload the vehicles’. This was also the refrain when the Centre in 2013 ordered overloaded trucks to be penalised ten times the predefined toll charges, to no discernible effect.

  And if one adopts their point of view, one can see that transporters taking a principled stand against overloading would likely put them out of business. The consignees—often powerful stakeholders in the local political economy—want to cut costs at any cost. They will always move on to the next transporter, who might be more than willing to overload his truck, ensuring the status quo is maintained.

  So, if overloading is such a win-win-win proposition for all key stakeholders, the question arises: isn’t it a victimless crime? Unfortunately, it isn’t. It claims many victims. Overloaded trucks are one of the biggest causes of fatalities on Indian roads. A report by the Indian Foundation for Transport Research and Training (IFTRT) estimates that 92,500 people come under the wheels of overloaded trucks every year—i.e., one person killed every six minutes.

  Accurate figures on the prevalence of overloading are difficult to obtain considering official complicity in the practice, but a 2013 report by the International Institute for Sustainable Development observes that ‘overloading in India is a rule rather than an exception in order to maximise profitability, leading to faster aging of vehicles and frequent breakdown’. IFTRT estimates that 70 per cent of the trucks plying with national permits resort to overloading.

  Overloading also causes great economic loss to the exchequer because of the damage it causes to the roads, which are built to accommodate a certain axle weight. The figures vary. A Crisil report observes that ‘even 10% overloading can reduce the life of roads and highways by 35%’, while Singh claims that overloading reduces the productive life of the road by 80 per cent and the productive life of the truck by 30 per cent. Clearly, while the extent of the damage isn’t conclusively established, the fact of it has been.

  Meanwhile, truck drivers like Jora put their own and others’ lives at risk, steering unwieldy vehicles on poor roads. How is this menace to be curbed? Shekhawat in Udaipur had laid down the only solution for my benefit. ‘Ultimately, overloading will stop only when the costs incurred due to overloading in the form of penalties exceed the profits to be made. Whenever an overloaded truck is caught, all officials on that route should be held accountable, and both transporters and consigners should be penalised.’ Of course, that is much easier said than done, when the state itself has a vested interest in the continued existence of overloaded trucks on our highways, ferrying death on wheels.

  Twilight is upon us. A solemn, grey sky is dissolving into darkness. It has taken us over thirty hours to cover 700 kilometres from Jaipur. We still have thirty kilometres to go. I wonder how Jora manages this routine all the time. It is exceptionally hard work, especially when you’re the one driving the truck. Even though I’ve just been sitting here, being an inquisitive nuisance, my bones are crackling with exhaustion.

  The Indica incident has rattled me. I can’t wait for us to reach Chandigarh, whose orderly charms I’ve heard a lot about. But mainly, I just want to hit the bed, preferably after a masochistic bout of drinking at a cheap watering hole, accompanied by some fiery tandoori chicken.

  So naturally, I’m dismayed when I spot a check-post looming in the distance, our approach paved with many haphazardly parked trucks along the road. It seems there’s no kaccha raasta that can take Jora directly to Chandigarh. He stops the truck alongside the highway, and marches towards the check-post, papers in hand.

  The stretch before the check-post is patrolled by numerous chaiwallahs, who hustle for customers, accompanied by symbiotically linked tambaku and bidi sellers. Jagdev and I buy some tea, sipping it as we lean against the truck. The tea is milky and cloyingly sweet.

  ‘Do you like this sweet tea?’ I ask Jagdev.

  ‘Haanji bilkul. Aisi chai se gaadi chalane ki taakat aati hai. Ise hum nabbe meel chai kehte hain (Yes absolutely. Sweet tea gives us the energy to keep on driving the truck. We call it the ninety mile tea).’

  That’s interesting, I muse. And it makes sense— sweet tea is not supposed to be idle refreshment, at least not for truckers like Jagdev. It’s meant to be a source of cheap energy. I wonder if
the vast majority of Indians who gulp down litres of dessert tea are propelled to do so by calorie-hoarding instincts, probably passed down generations.

  Jora returns. He seems flustered. He tells Jagdev that the computerised check at the check-post has revealed that they had not paid tax at an earlier outpost. When on their way from Punjab to Kota they had transported do number ka steel through a kacchi sadak to escape sales tax. But now when they’re transporting Kota stone on the way back, their sins seem have caught up with them.

  Tax authorities have discovered their tax evasion, because of which they aren’t being let through. Jora’s plan now is to wait until midnight and go to Devigarh, around 100 kms away, accompanied by an official from the revenue check-post to bribe the inspector and get their goods passed through.

  ‘How much do you think you’ll have to pay?’ I ask him

  ‘Around five thousand, I expect.’

  Jora advises me to continue my journey to Chandigarh.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t come?’

  ‘Yes. There’s no point. You must be tired. Go to Chandigarh. It is only 25 kms away. I’ll tell you where you can find a cheap hotel. We’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ says Jora.

  As we order two more rounds of tea to delay my departure, I spot a parked truck carrying logs of wood. I ask Jagdev if he knows what the wood is used for. ‘Oh that? It’s sal wood. Comes from Malaysia,’ he says, sure of himself. ‘Our truck is made from the same wood. It is known to be extremely tagda. Even if you overload the truck for years, the truck body won’t be damaged,’ he says.

  ‘Interesting. Where did you say your truck was made?’ I ask him.

  ‘Sirhind. Truckers all over India come there to get bodies made,’ he says. ‘In fact, that’s where we live. Why don’t you come over in three days? We will both be back home by then. Have some mauj in Chandigarh until then.’

  He turns to Jora, ‘We could take him to Mewa Singh’s workshop no?’

  Jora nods in agreement. ‘We’ll also take the Accent out for a spin,’ his face breaking into a mischievous grin.

  ‘Come, let me show you something,’ Jagdev takes me by the hand. We walk over to the door of his truck and he points out an iron medallion welded into the door. Funny I hadn’t noticed it. It bears the signature of the truck’s builder—‘Mewa Singh, Sirhind, Est. 1978’.

  It is time for me to leave. But before I can open my mouth to say alvida, I am drawn into a bone-crushing bear hug by Jagdev, followed by one from Jora. I realize I’ve grown fond of these spirited brothers. I had been dreading to say goodbye to them, unlikely to ever see them again, so I’m happy that we’ll be seeing each other in three days in Sirhind.

  I pick up my bags and walk on towards Chandigarh in the darkness, looking for any form of motorised conveyance that’ll deposit me there. Meanwhile, I turn over the name on the medallion in my head. Mewa Singh… Ah, what a delectable name. How eager I am to meet this body-builder of trucks.

  The Ustads of Sirhind

  A few minutes into Sirhind, my preliminary impression about Punjabis as a proud people is both reinforced and demolished. I am waiting at the designated spot on the highway below a flyover for Jora’s friend when a sunken-eyed Sikh in soiled white kurta-pyjama approaches me. He casually demands ten rupees, not with the professional desperation of a seasoned beggar but the forthrightness of a routine acquaintance. I’m so stunned by this unselfconscious display of familiarity that I hand him the money almost reflexively. He takes the money, shoves it in his pocket, staggers to the adjacent liquor store, procures a plastic pouch, presumably his daily alcohol fix, and shuffles away.

  I remember someone telling me as a child, very authoritatively I might add, that you will never see a sardar beg. And that belief had endured, uncontradicted by all my life’s sights. I reckon it is in such moments you realize traveling is as much about unlearning as it is about learning, when long-held prejudices wither away in the face of empirical evidence.

  But why I say that my belief about proud Punjabis had also been reinforced was that the man had not technically begged. He had hardly grovelled. He had just asked and I had given him the money. I reckon one thing I did learn from him is that if you are confident enough, people are just awed into doing your bidding. Or maybe, he was just missing ten bucks, and I looked like a pushover.

  As I quickly gulp down a glass of mosambi juice at a roadside stall, Jora’s langotiya yaar arrives in a white Accent. He clambers out of the car and proceeds to shake my hands effusively.

  ‘If you’re Jora’s friend,’ he says, ‘you’re my friend. I’m Amarinder, but my friends call me Palle. You can call me Palle,’ he says and squeezes me into a mighty hug.

  He has a square face, spiky hair and an enthusiastic grin permanently plastered on his face. Dressed stylishly—a spotless white shirt tucked into brown corduroys, and black shoes for mirrors—he could have passed for Virat Kohli’s long-lost brother. He certainly betrays more sartorial taste than me, I muse, and look down at my own shabby clothes—an old T-shirt, baggy shorts and dusty chappals.

  Once we were in the car, he offers me an ice cold bottle of Pepsi that is dripping condensed water. I would have settled just for water, but I accept the bottle of carbonated sugar gratefully considering it’s a hot day. It doesn’t take me long to realize Palle is the kind of jovial, dependable friend who takes profuse pleasure in ensuring his wards are well-fed and comfortable. He tells me he’s a graduate and recently cleared the State Bank of India clerk exam. He is awaiting his place of posting in Punjab, which will be notified to him within a month.

  ‘Toh chalein?’ he says, and turns on the engine. As we drive around, I find Sirhind indistinguishable from the many dusty small towns scattered across India, except that finding cigarettes here can be quite a chore. It is taboo among Sikhs to own a paan shop so most of them are run by Biharis in migrant-dominated areas. Overall, the city evokes a sort of semi-arid joylessness—this is not the bountiful Punjab of Bollywood—which fits well with its macabre history.

  Sirhind, as its name indicates, might have represented the frontier of Hindustan for the Mughals. It was an important trading and administrative centre on the Delhi–Lahore highway, owing its prominence, much like Bhiwandi, to its proximity to the currents of commerce. In the Sikh tradition, however, it is a site of sacrilege and horror—a ‘cursed city’. Two of Guru Gobind Singh’s sons—the sahibzadas—were cruelly bricked to death here in 1704, by the governor of Sirhind.

  The Guru, upon hearing the news, is said to have cursed the city with an apocalyptic fate. He prophesized the total destruction of the city, that one day, the bricks of its houses will be reduced to fertile soil and ploughed by donkeys. And so, in the 18th century, the Sikh misls—military brotherhoods that ruled over Punjab—set out to put the prophecy in motion. In 1764, they managed to wrest Sirhind from the Afghans, and proceeded to raze it to the ground.

  The entire city, spread over ten kilometres, was divided up among the misls for organized dismantling. Not a single brick was to be left standing. Jassa Singh Ahluwalia and other heads of the misls then ploughed the area using yoked donkeys, thus fulfilling Guru Gobind Singh’s shaap. It is said it took another 100 years for the ruins of Sirhind to be swallowed by the Sutlej–Yamuna Doab.

  Mewa Singh’s workshop is soon upon us, tucked away on a service road adjoining a flyover on Grand Trunk road. It is a scorching day and the entrance to the establishment provides stark contrast to the blinding blaze of the sun—a dark, rectangular brick-lined opening large enough for one truck to pass through. Palle bids me goodbye and informs me that Jora and Jagdev will join me in the workshop later in the evening. Until then, I’m free to look around the workshop.

  The temperature instantly drops by a few degrees as I step into the workshop. My ears are assaulted by the noise of echoing clangs, bangs and whirs mingled with the sound of laughter and conversations that double up as screaming matches. I see the four-acre workshop is an imposing, bare brick structu
re lined with cabinets, tools, irregular aluminium cutouts, stencils, iron sheets and dusty photos of Sikh gurus, alongside Hindu gods and goddesses. A huge poster of Guru Gobind Singh, with his two martyred sons, adorns the wall to the right of the entrance. Below the image is written in large Gurmukhi font, ‘Koti Koti Pranaam (A Thousand Prayers)’.

  I see an artisan hammering iron sheets. Some are engaged in firming up a skeletal frame. Others are welding away to glory, the arc lights bathing their scrunched up faces in an orange glow.

  Mewa Singh, the man himself, is a sixty-four-year-old grizzly, dignified Sikh with a gracefully furrowed face, inseparable from his mobile phone. Awaiting customers and the artisans at work approach him, addressing him as sardarji, not with the derogatory connotations the term has come to acquire, but with the awe and reverence reserved for stern, but fair leaders.

  There are America-returned Sikh truck owners— patriarchs with paunches protruding out of colourful kurtas and their progeny sporting trendy faded jeans and branded J Crew T-shirts—engrossed in watching a truck artist apply daubs of maroon paint to the back of their truck, when a fountain of electric arc sparks startles them into dodging and stomping their feet in mild panic. A teenage boy, whom I later see Whatsapping, distributes sweet chai around—steaming hot respite on a hard day.

  It takes me a while to wrap my head around the variety of tasks being performed in the workshop. After all, the journey of a truck from bare chassis to well-decorated beasts of burden is a complex one. It’s the end product of a metallic symphony.

  Mewa Singh & Co., established in 1978, is one of the largest truck-body builders in Sirhind with an annual turnover of over Rs 1 crore. His business has prospered because Mewa Singh knows how important his job is and how to treat customers. For a truck driver, who typically spends eight months in a year on the road, commissioning a truck body is equivalent to buying a house for your average sedentary Joe. A pretty big deal, as Mewa Singh is aware. ‘It’s like choosing a life partner,’ he says.