Truck de India!

by Rajat Ubhaykar

  Not unlike the WWE wrestlers on the dhaba’s TV screen, who emit guttural sounds and pound their chests in rage, motioning the other to dare hit him. Indeed, all male eyes in the dhaba are glued to their antics. The crowd’s favourite seems to be someone called Rico Moraes. Rico is pitted against a chubby wrestler who launches into the fight with the disarmingly honest disclaimer, ‘I may not look like your typical athlete…’

  Their maneuvers in the ring are hypnotizing. The waiter tells me WWE is hugely popular here. ‘This is a regular thing for most of them,’ he says, pointing towards the mix of truckers and locals that’s thronging the dhaba. It’s a revelation to me that wrestling is one of the most popular sports in Nagaland—not just WWE but also their age-old indigenous wrestling tradition. Evidently, cricket never caught on as much in these parts.

  Just then, the wrestlers’ growls are silenced by a power cut. One of the waiters lights the candles already arranged on the tables for this eventuality. It’s a candlelight dinner like no other. It is half past nine when we decide to retreat to our truck. I find out we’re going to stay here for the night. Well, this is news to me. Perhaps, it’s for the best.

  Mohammad, who is friends with the dhaba manager, proceeds to sleep in the staff quarters. David goes off to sleep in a friend’s truck. Rahul and I settle in the cabin. He puts on some beautiful music. Rihanna and Beiber give way to soothing ghazals. I’m amazed at the diversity of music in his USB.

  I take out the bottle of Old Monk buried in the depths of my bag. Rahul jumps out of the truck and returns with a bottle of whisky, stowed away in the tube of the spare tyre. I have a feeling all advisories against mixing of alcohols will be set aside today.

  It’s a different matter Nagaland itself is officially under Prohibition. Contraband alcohol, however, is widely available. There were two such establishments— one masquerading as a grocery store and the other as a mineral water shop—within five minutes walking distance from my lodge in Dimapur. So widespread are these establishments that it is estimated Dimapur may have the highest concentration of mineral water shops in India.

  It’s not very different in other states that have Prohibition in place. Rahul tells me of the time when he was caught drinking in Mizoram by the police. He was expecting trouble but when he invited the policemen in for a drink, all of them got so wasted that the policemen ended up passing out in the truck along with him.

  I realize at the tender age of nineteen, Rahul has seen more of the world than I had at his age. He even claims to have been to Sri Lanka for a taekwondo competition in the 8th class. ‘But what use was that to me? I dropped out of school the very next year,’ he says. ‘Studying never was my cup of tea.’

  He’s very different from his younger brother in that sense, who’s currently enrolled in an engineering college in Guwahati. ‘He’s very smart. Always tops his class. Doesn’t trouble anyone. No bad habits. Very sincere,’ he says. ‘It is for him I’m doing all this. His college fees are very steep. My father who works for the electricity board in Dimapur cannot afford so much. I have to contribute whatever I can.’

  ‘And what about your own future? Do you think about that?’

  ‘My future? I know what that is. This truck and this road, that’s my future. Or perhaps America, someday.’

  I ask him about the interesting things he’s seen in his travels.

  ‘I saw this gigantic fish once in the river separating Bangladesh and Meghalaya. At least seven feet long and weighing two to three quintals,’ he says. ‘It was huge!’

  And the most terrible sight?

  ‘That has to be when I witnessed twelve people being tied to the train tracks and publicly executed in Dimapur.’ he says. ‘I still get nightmares about that.’

  ‘But wait till you hear this. My father was posted in Arunachal earlier. There, I once saw these strange creatures in the river. They were like fish but with a human face,’ he says.

  He even claims to have been to China from Arunachal in a boat along the Siang River.

  ‘Everybody does kung fu in China. When I visited a school there, they were doing kung fu even in the school assembly,’ he says. ‘And all the students were experts at jumping because of their kung fu practice. Even if there were stairs, they would only jump to reach their destination, leaping over seven to eight stairs in one go.’

  And so we chat the hours away, his stories acquiring a distinct touch of fabulism as the bottle progressively empties. Around midnight, the military convoy passes us, like a herd of wildebeest raising hell and dust. It takes fifteen minutes for the last of the trucks to rumble past, during which it was impossible to maintain a conversation. The sky outside is the colour of ink. I jump out of the truck to stretch my limbs. Rahul calls after me, urging me to get back into the truck.

  When I clamber in, he explains, ‘It’s a Bengali shop so there’s a chance drunk Naga guys might turn up to harass people. Best not go out at this hour. They usually come out in four-wheelers once the convoy has passed.’ He reaches into a compartment in the dashboard of the truck for something, places it on the seat and flips on the torchlight of his phone to illuminate it properly. It’s a rusty, but potentially lethal, machete.

  ‘We call this a dao,’ he says. ‘Not for attack. Only for protection.’

  Well, has he had a chance to use it yet?

  ‘No. Can’t say I have. It’s best to talk things out first, you see. You never know what weapons the andarwalas are carrying. If you attack them, they won’t spare you,’ he says. ‘In any case, they behave as if they own the truck.’

  It is deathly quiet outside now. The dhaba lights have been switched off. The stragglers have all departed. It’s best if we don’t tempt trouble by staying up too late.

  Rahul reads my mind. ‘The one who has the last drink will get married first,’ he says, and drowns the last dregs in his glass. I follow suit, and soon lapse into the charmed sleep of the blissfully drunk.

  The rooster crows at exactly 3 am. It’s a deafening reminder of the sun’s proclivity to rise early in the North East. Unlike humans, the rooster doesn’t mechanically conform to the arbitrary divisions of the clock. Its biological rhythm is attuned to the spinning of the earth, and not the Indian Standard Time.

  Rahul is unmoved. He continues to emit strangled snores, like the dying sputter of an old car. I wouldn’t have reckoned such a small body to be capable of producing such a thunderous sound.

  It’s cacophony at daybreak. It is impossible to sleep, and nor do I feel like it. I dawdle in the cabin for a while and at the first hint of light, jump out for a walk. As I amble along the highway, a chorus of variegated snores greets me from the many trucks parked along the side of the road. I pass four Naga boys in sweatshirts with stout sticks in their hands, headed somewhere purposefully. The houses on the way are all wooden and of indigenous design, with sloping roofs and a certain degree of elegance and wholesomeness that is absent in the vulgar, bricked cities in most of India.

  After a while, I get off the highway and venture on to a dirt path that ascends the hill, in order to get a better view of the surrounding valley. As I walk up, the constant buzz of wasps follows me. They strike a strangely musical note, like the chant of pandits reciting shlokas at top speed. It is also here that I spot the biggest moth I have ever seen in my life, gliding over my head like an alien bird.

  I soon come across a concrete structure. The intent behind building it is unclear, though shards of beer bottles inform me what purpose it currently serves. Its walls are scrawled all over with pencil graffiti, with many incoherent phrases and obscene drawings. Just when I’m wondering whose handiwork this could be, I spot the incriminating evidence in a corner of the wall. ‘Welcome to Garo Boys Party’, it says. What were Garos, likely from Assam or Meghalaya, doing in Nagaland, partying at this outpost in the middle of nowhere?

  The answer is right in front of me. It’s the splendid view—blue haze hanging over undulating hills that stretch as far as the eye can see,
framing emerald green paddy fields in the valley below. The sky today is slightly overcast. So when the sun sneaks up from behind the mountains, it pierces the mist with its rays, clearing up the haze like an optical vacuum cleaner. I sit on a bench and write in my logbook. My mind too has cleared up. Some moments demand a reckoning with one’s own self.

  My fear of andarwalas interrupting our journey has been unfounded. Instead, I have witnessed one of the most splendid sunrises of my life. I guess such is the nature of travel, when the true nature of a place reveals itself, or perhaps, when you realize that there is no true nature of a place. It is merely the images we associate with a place that shape our perception of it. The human brain is incapable of associating more than a handful of things with a place; its job is to underplay complexity and categorize reality into simplicity. That’s why one must never internalize anything the world tells you about a place. The only way to travel is to forget everything you think you know about a place. Discover it anew. Forge new associations. Associations that are all your own. I, for one, know, that after this trip, I will always remember this sunrise when I think of Nagaland, and not insurgents or headhunting tribals.

  At 5 am, from my perch I see the first truck driver stir out of his cabin. I walk down to the highway. There is a flock of temperamental geese wandering the roads. I know for a fact these grumpy creatures can be potentially dangerous. So I cross the road to avoid them and walk to our truck.

  Rahul and David are up within the hour. After they’re done vigorously brushing their teeth, we walk to a dhaba nearby and call for a cup of lal chai. It’s early morning and we get the best seats in the dhaba, right by the edge of the hill, the perfect vantage point to gaze into the dewy, forested hills that lie beyond.

  I sip the tea. Hot. Sour. Sweet. Spicy. Bitter. What a delightful blend! I could have this chai all my life. Adding milk to such divine tea almost amounts to adulteration. Refreshed, I ask Rahul and David, who are savouring their chais, what their plan for the day is. David tells me that on account of the bandh, they intend to rest here for a while and move on to Kohima only in the evening. Meanwhile, he advises me to get a lift till there. It’s only fifteen kilometres from where we are. Why, that course of action makes complete sense. And it shall be done, but not before another glass of fiery lal chai.

  We head back to our truck. It is time for goodbyes. I embrace Rahul and David. Mohammad is still asleep in the dhaba. What a crew, I think to myself. Wonder how many such secular trios are driving around India. I know I’m going to miss them, especially Rahul.

  I gather my bags, and stand by the side of the road. Rahul insists on joining me so he can intercede on my behalf with the drivers of passing vehicles. There are no trucks on the highway at this hour, but soon a goods Jeep ferrying an assortment of packaged food, biscuits and soft drinks stops by.

  The driver, a Naga with betel-stained red lips, agrees to take me in. But there is so much stuff crammed in the jeep that I have no choice but to squeeze in next to him. I don’t particularly mind, except that the gear stick is right between my legs, so whenever he reaches out to switch gears I flinch out of sheer awkwardness.

  When I try to make conversation, I discover he speaks neither Hindi nor English, compelling us to settle for a companionable silence. Nevertheless, I manage to find out he’s a Konyak Naga. I am also able to spot, thanks to my close proximity, exactly four wisps of hair sticking out of his chin. His jeep is much faster than the truck, and within no time, the lush forests give way to the concrete sprawl of Kohima. It’s barely eight o’clock and the streets are still deserted. I have the full day ahead of me. This is going to be fun.

  Almost-India

  It is noon, but I find a blanket of thick rain clouds has blotted out the sun, as I step out of my lodge and hurry towards the Kohima War Cemetery. I pray the rain doesn’t play spoilsport. After all, the cemetery, which contains the remains of over a thousand World War II era soldiers, is one of the most important landmarks in Kohima. Spread out on the slopes of Garrison Hill, it’s located right in the centre of the city, a strategic vantage point that once witnessed the final hours of pitched battle between the British and Japanese soldiers.

  After a short walk up Garrison Hill, I reach the memorial. It’s a grand sight. There are rows upon rows of graves laid down on immaculately maintained flower beds, in the midst of manicured lawns, presenting an expansive view of Kohima that is unfortunately obscured today by mist and clouds.

  There is a sense of solemnity discernible on these grounds here, only accentuated by the gloomy weather. The sombre grey stone, the barrack-like precision of the architecture, the impressive cleanliness, and the unerringly parallel grid of graves cutting through the grass, all of this combines to produce an effect that is as wondrous as it is intimidating. So when I spot a signboard seeking my cooperation in maintaining the ‘beauty and peace’ of the cemetery, I feel an urge to put on my best behaviour.

  I walk among the graves of the soldiers, looking at their names, wondering what lives they led, how they died. There’s Havildar Major Muhammad Khan of the Artillery Regiment, Lance Naik Muhammad Sakhi of the 1st Punjab Regiment, and to my surprise, Driver Nur Muhammad of the Royal Indian Army Service Corps. Would he have been one of India’s first truck drivers, I wonder, whose budding career was cruelly cut short here on this hill at the age of twenty-five, in the full bloom of his youth?

  Most of the names are Muslim and British. But interestingly, there are also some Hindu names, with Om Namah Bhagawate written above their names in Devnagari, along with anonymous graves for unidentified soldiers. The view gets better with every flight of stairs I climb, as I approach the massive memorial dedicated to cremated Hindu and Sikh soldiers that’s perched at the very top of the hill.

  Ambling along the cemetery’s neatly laid paths, I spot another memorial, this one commemorating the soldiers who died in the Battle of the Tennis Court, the climactic battle in which the Indian Army finally managed to repel the Japanese advance after some of the ‘bitterest close-quarter fighting of the war’. In front of the memorial is a sapling enclosed by a cage of wire, along with a signboard which says, ‘This flowering cherry tree is of historical interest. The original tree was used as a sniper’s post by the Japanese and was destroyed in the fighting which raged around the tennis court and marked the limit of the Japanese advance into India. The present tree is a shoot from the old stump.’

  The cemetery feels like an enchanted garden, a timeless enclave of death and honour. I could stay here a while, walking among the dead, but today’s clearly not the day, because the rain clouds finally burst with a deafening roar, forcing me to seek shelter under one of the few roofed memorials. Other people also scramble to get inside, mostly Naga couples and families. The rain subsides in a while, but not altogether. I hurry towards my lodge in the drizzle, intent on sampling a cup of lal chai on the way.

  When I reach near the bottom of the cemetery path, I spot an epitaph I’d missed earlier. It is revered and recited all across the United Kingdom as the Kohima Epitaph, paying tribute to the buried soldiers in these affecting words:

  When You Go Home, Tell Them of Us and Say,

  For Your Tomorrow, We Gave Our Today

  As I read aloud to myself, it feels like the collective voice of martyred soldiers everywhere has spoken to me through the bloody mists of history.

  I walk back to the lodge. The reception desk has a few keys hanging, a government of Nagaland calendar, and a large switchboard on its wall with ‘CHRIST IS THE HEAD OF THIS HOUSE’ written on it in bold letters. Strangely, not a single person has asked to see my ILP pass in Nagaland, I think to myself, as I collect my keys from the boy manning the desk.

  After a short nap on this damp, musty afternoon, I head into one of the markets of Kohima after the clouds clear up. I spot Naga women selling raja mircha or King Chilli in compact sacks by the road, their teeth and gums an identical red from chewing tamul or betel nut, popular among both Naga men and women.
I buy a packet of the chilli for my mother.

  When I reach the main market, I see Bihari vendors hunched over baskets of tomatoes, potatoes and lemons, while fashionable Naga college students stride purposefully with earphones dangling down their fronts.

  It is only five o’clock and I consider heading out to watch a film, only to find that Kohima doesn’t have a single movie theatre. It turns out all movie consumption is through pirated CDs. In fact, the most common shops in Kohima are either pirated CD shops, paanwallahs or bookstores.

  The latter is a blessing though, considering I’m in the habit of visiting bookstores in every city I visit. There are invariably a handful of well-stocked ones that possess an enviable collection of fiction and nonfiction relating to the state, especially translated works that don’t enjoy a market in other places. My backpack was by now bursting with books acquired along the way: Pankaj Mishra’s The Romantics lent by a friend in Jaipur, Khushwant Singh’s A History of the Sikhs bought in Pathankot, Agha Shahid Ali’s The Country Without a Post Office in Srinagar. I end up adding another book to my collection in Kohima—When The River Sleeps by Easterine Kire, a surreal fable set in the forested Naga hills that provides penetrating insight into the Naga worldview, which sees the world of men and the world of spirits as inseparable. The book is so enthralling I end up finishing it in one sitting later that night in my hotel room.

  After some time at the bookstore, I visit the offices of a newspaper, mainly because it’s right beside my lodge, but also to get a better sense of the situation on the ground, before I head further towards Imphal. I’m surprised to find that the office of Nagaland’s leading newspaper consists of only three small rooms, staffed by six employees—three reporters, one bureau chief, and two administrative staff.

  The only journalist present says he can’t confirm the situation on the ground. He goes on to admit that Nagaland lacks genuine investigative journalism and ground reportage. Most of the journalists end up relying on press releases either from the government or the insurgents—a thankless, ill-paid job that often ends up in them being ‘accused of favouritism by both the army and rebel groups’.