Ramesh Kumar from New DelhiMid February 2011, it was and the rain gods had drenched National Highway 56 linking Varanasi with Lucknow, both falling in the state of Uttar Pradesh. A few hours earlier, Anil Pandeyji (senior driver) had woken me up lying at the back seat post-dinner past midnight. Actually, I was already awake and completed my morning ablutions on the roadside, ably assisted by Parvez Khan, second driver who handed over a 2-litre bottle of Pepsi filled with water. (I did talk about this morning exercise in detail in my maiden book,
10,000 KM on Indian Highways, Chapter 1 aptly titled "Always In Public".)
When the roads are wet, vehicles automatically move on a lower gear and Pandeyji did not attempt any trick to beat the regulatory speed of 35-40 km/hour. We found two sugarcane-laden tractor trailers lying in ditches on the roadside and drivers screaming into their mobile phones seeking crane help to lift vehicles and save their cargo as early as possible.
"How about this dhaba, sirji?"asked the young Khan.
I nodded in agreement. More than the food to be partaken, I cherished the idea of closer to the help-seeking drivers of the "ditched tractor-trailer" and the ensuing tragic drama. Pandeyji steered our vehicle (tractor-trailer with Tata Steel hot rolled coils being ferried from Jamshedpur to Ludhiana as stock transfer for Tata Steel) into the vast open front yard of the nameless dhaba. There were two other smaller trucks parked in the yard. Without much trouble, our vehicle moved in and we got out.
Quickly tooth brush and paste came out of my totem bag and a gamcha to wipe face. Khan climbed up the front bumper with a wet cloth to clean the front glass of the truck while Pandeyji began his rounds of checking tyres for pressure and digging out pebbles that squeezed themselves into the grooves and nails that surreptitiously nuzzled into the harder exteriors of tyres. Unchecked, both these items would impact tyre life and perhaps make it more accident-prone.
Irfanbhai at the dhaba was peering at us from the kitchen area. No, he was not cooking anything, but perched there watching the traffic on the two-lane highway 50 feet away. Lean, a nice trimmed white French beard with parsely hair on top. White full sleeves, collarless shirt and a grey Nehru jacket. Maybe in his 50s. Sharp nose. Glistening eyes.
I settled down on one of the several wooden benches that serves both purposes of seating and as table to hold served food. Multi-utilitarian. Unplastered brick walls with lime painted. Typical overhead conical roof made of dried hay with criss-cross bamboo scaffolding. Calendars with Hindu pantheon of Gods "blessing" from brick walls at shoulder level. Damp muddy flooring, made slippery by the incessant rains. Aluminium utensils for kitchen use were on display near the entrance, possibly washed and kept there to dry. Few coir cots and some wooden benches - like the ones we were occupying inside - were laid out in the open equally, but fully wet on account of rain.
"Garam chai piyenge?"(Can I serve hot tea?) asked Irfanbhai, warming himself near the semi-burning tandoor (oven) inside the kitchen.
Why not? Requested a sugarless and strong one for me and normal tea for Pandeyji and Khan.
Haan... told him to serve me in glass container, not porcelain cups or ever-silver ones. I love drinking out of glass containers because they easily transmit warmth when held in palms. It's divine particularly in monsoon or winter season. Somehow, I cherish looking at the transparent glasses showing less tea at the bottom and more as reaches the lip tip. No such facility in a porcelain or steel cups. Crazy notion, but what's wrong?
"Keep your feet up. Fold your legs and sit like we do in villages," advised Irfanbhai's Man Friday bringing a big plastic mug filled with cold water and three tall brass tumblers. Khan and Pandeyji, filled their tumblers, had a full swig and non-chalantly spit next to them on the ground in the gap between our bench and the next one. Mouth washing, post-brushing.
Unhygienic? Well, this is no restaurant where white collar go for breakfast, lunch or dinner. This is truckers' dhaba. No wash basins. No mirrors to peer at one's own image while gorgling and spitting into the wash basin. To brush teeth and wash face and hands, one has to step out into the open and find the huge bathing rectangular cement tank - filled to the brim through a motorized pump - use one of the umpteen plastic or aluminium mugs floating or kept on the edges. Gorgle, wash and spit wherever one wishes, but not into the tank!
Had the sky not opened up, would Khan and Pandeyji have completed their chore there? Not at all. Truck drivers are habituated to living in unhygienic surroundings. They don't attach much value to such nicetied in life, perhaps. By the way, they access tooth brush, paste. Even tongue-cleaner that I gave it up long ago!
Irfanbhai's
garam chai arrives.
"Äap ke liye, adrak daala!"(I added ginger in your tea), says Irfan from the kitchen - a few feet away separated by a hip high mud wall.
Actually, I like my tea without any such additives. No
elachi (cardamom) or
tulsi (basil leaves) for me. No sugar because of my diabetic condition. It is more than 15 years since sugar intake stopped. I like my
chai sweetless, but strong. Not for me the dipped bag tea version.
"How do you drink, sugarless. I can't,"quipped Khan.
"Irfanbhai, put my sugar also into his," I said much to the merriment of Khan and Pandeyji. It was a mystery as to why truck drivers gulp down
kheer-like tea - extra sugary, that is for a long time until my trekking friend Himanshu Joshi explained the rationalize of mountaineers carrying chocolates for quick energy infusion purposes. Truck drivers kill their appetite or compensate lost physical energy - truck driving, though motorized and power steering, is a tough job - by consuming more sugar.
"
Kya kayengi aap?"(What's your food order?): Irfanbhai.
By and large, truck drivers usually don't have breakfast. Several cups of tea, bidi, cigarette, tobacco keeps them through till 1 p.m. Why? Don't they feel hungry? They have conquered hunger in a manner of speaking. To understand this situation, one has to understand their cashflow. Fleet owners provide a daily fooding allowance of Rs.200. Remember, the concept of kalasi (cleaner or helper) has gone out of fashion because truck driving is not a career option. Yet, drivers bring in someone from their neighbourhood at their own expense. So, drivers have to take care of this extra mouth also to be fed. Rs.200 per day for two men is peanuts even at truckers' dhabas on highways.
Also, given the physical strain involved in trucking, they eat heavily: large volume - more rotis, more
sabzi. Perhaps just one full-fledged meal in any 24 hour cycle. Rs.200 just sufficient for one meal for two. If so, how do they manage several cups of tea, bidi, tobacco etc daily? Well, that explains the
jugaad.
It is no secret that there is a lot of mistrust between truck drivers and fleet owners. Each suspect the other of hoodwinking. The survival instinct of both parties - because they have to co-exist, like it or not - enables them to find ways to rob one another. No fleet owner is stupid enough to believe that Rs.200 fooding allowance per day is enough. They are fully aware that their drivers would "manage" by hook or crook.
However, Pandeyji changed his routine and decided to have breakfast because of my presence as a guest-traveler recommended by his bosses in Mumbai. He has to accommodate me as a co-traveler for the entire duration of trucking from Jamshedpur to Ludhiana (1960 km) over six days with Tata Steel coil load. I can't be deprived of my breakfast!
We ordered
aloo, mooli parantha with curd and pickle.
Irfanbhai moved into the kitchen and his crew of two began washing potato (
aloo) and raddish (
mooli); another started kneading wheat flour for
parantha.
It was a spacious dhaba 50 km before Sultanpur. Cobwebs decorated corners and rain water was dripping through the eaves. Corners were dark. There were electric bulbs hung loosely on the crisscrossing bamboo scaffolding. The kitchen had ample natural light seeping through an iron wire-mesh running right across. Till sunset or it becomes darker to read, he needs no light. Even after that, he may not. His lighting would through the burning oven. Luckily, there was electric power supply and a bulb, nailed or hooked on one of the pillars, was brighly burning.
Sack of potatoes and onion was strewn in a corner. A large aluminium plate had
mooli, chillies, cucumber and lemon. The only green vegetable they partake regularly is chillies and cucumber occasionally. Potato and onion is for all-seasons. Add
paneer. Pickle in a truckers' dhaba does not mean what you and I have at our dinner tables - bottled verson bought from market or home-made. A katori (small plate) of chillies, diced lemon and salt.
Khan shouted: "Irfanbhai, wash your hands before you prepare anything.
Saab (referring to me)
shehar se aaya hai," (Sirji is from city, meaning we cityfolk are more hygienic!).
"Chinta mat karo, miyan!"(Worry not!), Irfanbhai shouted back.
Noticing that the drizzling has stopped, I got up and moved around. A few hens came strutting out of their temporary shelters to peck at whatever they spot on the damp ground. Flock of chicken dashed here and there under the protective eyes of their mother, clucking non-stop.
How about some
aanda bhurji (scramled egg with tomato and chillies)? I added that to the menu after this chicken darshan. No tomato. Does not matter. Even without it,
bhurji would be tasty!
From outside, I saw Irfanbhai fully immersed in preparing
daal makhni (thick lentil soup as side disk for roti) for Khan. The pan sizzled as he added masala sending a few puffs of smoke. The aroma or fragrance hit my nostril. His Man Friday was equally busy rolling rotis while the third young helper stood still watching the food in the making.
Cooking is an art. Nothing like mother's
khaana (food). The taste is divine. Yet when you step out and go to hotels in cities or on highways or dhabas for truckers, it is men always who manage kitchen. Rarely seen a dhaba manned by women. Except one on the banks of the mighty Brahmaputra on the Assam-Arunachal Pradesh border in 2012 while crossing from Tinsukia to Tezu in barges with our vehicles.
The food is always tasty and yummy at truckers' dhabas, though nothing to write home about their hygiene quotient. Our womenfolk would walk away if asked to eat at these joints. Some suited-booted men too would make faces. Certainly these joints are not classy. Freshly made, provided you are alert and insist on fresh items. Piping hot, of course, the food would be. Simple but filling. I wondered how did ex-Chairman of Tata Motors Cyrus Mistry halted and had food at a dhaba last week which photo had gone viral. To eat in a truckers' dhaba, one simply has to leave aside his/her "holier-than-thou" attitude. Be there and behave like an
aam janta (common/ordinary citizen). Food surely will delight, though not the ambience.
"Khaana tayaar hai. Laagao?" (Food ready. Can I serve?" That was Irfanbhai.
Fresh plates were placed after wiping them with a towel hung from the junior helper's shoulders at the dhaba. Small
katoris of 'pickle' too came. Khan ordered buttered
daal makhni. So the melted butter shingled on the surface. Pandeyji and I got our parantha. I tried to pick a portion but it was hot and drew my fingers away quickly. Pandeyji smiled at my temporary discomfiture.
Next half an hour went in
pet pooja. Khan burped signaling his task done.
Pandeyji finished his portions and washed hands there itself. Not in the plate, but on the ground beneath the wooden bench were we were seated.
More trucks came in and parked. More drivers walked in to occupy empty benches.
"Irfanbhai, kaise ho?" enquired some as a form of greetings. Perhaps they are his regular customers who ply on this route and visit for
khaana-peena."What happened? Have not seen you for long? No loads this side?"Irfanbhai shot back.
I watched the banter between them which established a relationship built over time. Customer Relationship Management!
Irfanbhai came and sat next to us. He was curious to know more about me. Pandeyji explained my antecedents and the purpose of my truck trip.
How come there is no nameplate for his dhaba?
"
Naam mein kya rakha, saab?"(What's there in a name?)
He believes in serving good food to his clientele. Period.
How much money he makes daily? Pat came reply: depends on the footfalls.
Irfanbhai runs this outfit for long, but can't recollect the exact number of years.
"You shot photos. What will you do with them?" Childlike innocence.
'Sirji will write about you and tell the world that you gave good food,' Khan quipped.
Irfanbhai smiled. Pandeyji settled the bill.
I wanted to shake hands with Irfanbhai and team.
"Ek minute," saying this, he rushed in and came back after cleaning his palms with the towel and extended his hands. His two colleagues too. A warm handshake followed before I climbed in the womb of Pandey's Tata truck to resume journey to Ludhiana.
The writer is author of 10,000 KM on Indian Highways, Naked Banana! & An Affair With Indian Highways. He also edits DRIVERS DUNIYA, India's FIRST and ONLY long haul truck driver-focused English quarterly. He is the Founder of KRK Foundation, a Registered Trust focused on improving working and living conditions of truck drivers and their families living in remote villages of India. He is reachable at ramesh@konsultramesh.com
