I thought fixing a date with a truck would be a ticklish task. Ticklish because everytime I mentioned it to thinking human beings, they would just roll with laughter. But Joginder Singhji, owner of the Garcha Transport, was different. Imagine my surprise when instead of bursting into guffaws, all he said was: ‘‘Time dasso ji,’’ Without missing a beat. It was as if Chandigarh women were always wanting to drive his trucks. So it was on a soggy Sunday morning, after a night spent dreaming about trucks driving into ditches, ponds, and worse, homo sapiens, that I arrived for the rendezvous at Industrial Area. The growling welcome by three yellow pie dogs, who tried to get up, close and personal, and my equally high-pitched response ensured that Joginderji’s driver materialised at once. It was then that my eyes fell on this handsome clay-yellow truck with a curling mooch on his bonnet. Aaaah, it was love at first sight. But I got this strange feeling that my co-passengers — my venerable lensman and fauji brother — were less than enthusiastic about it. After some talk about tailing me in their car, and heated arguments about my licence (I drive without one) they finally got in. Sulking. I was of course drop-jawed as I took in the beauty of the behemoth. The burly looks hid fine artwork — they call it the Sirhind style because that’s where the body is done. There was also a touch of the pastoral in the apples that looked like tomatoes, and the fluorescent palm trees. Inside the cabin, I felt on top of the world. Literally. The tall truck put the rest of the world in its place. I could even hear a Maruti go: ‘‘Like flies to wanton boys are we to trucks, they mow us for their sport.’’ The bard was doing cartwheels in my head as we trundled out of the city. No, I wasn’t at the wheel, the change of guard took place when we reached the fields. Really, it was quite simple: the gear was that of my Maruti, except it was really huge, the clutch stuck out like a sore thumb as did the brake, while the puny accelerator had me fishing with my foot. There I sat, ramrod straight, thanks mostly to the seat, savouring the moment. It was the bored chalo ji of the driver, Sarwan, that broke my reverie. We started with a bang. The cleaner, Bijender Ram, banged his head against the window when I stepped on the brake by accident. Wow, it sure was one tight brake. And then as the truck began his gentle rocking motion, a strange hush descended on the cabin. My motormouth brother was lost in wonderment as were the others as I drove like James Bond, right in the middle of the road. To tell you the truth, the ditch on the left kept pushing me to the safe centre of the two-lane road. Besides, even though the sun was yet to wake up fully, there were enough temple-going types pouring in from the adjoining village roads, all with the sole intent of taking the easy route to heaven. Via my truck. Which is why I didn’t let go of the horn till Sarwan gently intervened. Suicidal scooterists nudged past without so much as ‘May I?’, while Marutis played crush-me-if-you-can. Lord, forgive them, I sent a silent prayer. They know not how to drive. Truckers, mind you, were more disciplined, even the ones stuffed with pilgrims at two levels — the women on the floor and the men on phattas in the air. What gave me the heebi-jeebies were the buses that rushed in headlong, almost willing a crash, and old women who darted across the road with eyes wide shut. Bijender thought it the right time for some truckwala gaana. I wanted to tell him about Elvis Presley and Bruce Springstein, the truckers-turned-singers, but small talk is a casualty when so many lives are hanging by your wheel. There was a minor racket when we grazed past a trolley, but Sarwan merely mopped his brow, and murmured chalo, chalo. Drivers of other trucks were more expressive: Two waved, two flashed the dipper, and one genial soul swung his head out. It’s uncanny, this connection I enjoy with truckers. Sarwan, a Narendra Modi lookalike, too was loosening up. Moments after spying a policeman, he uttered his first full sentence: ‘‘Maaro goli ehna saalyaan nun.’’ If this driver of 20 years had his way, there’d be shoot-at-sight orders for all things khaki. ‘‘All they want is money,’’ he fumed. I lent him an ear, but with my eyes fixed on the road. And the dhabas. Finally, we lumbered into one near Patiala, whose owner greeted me like a long-lost friend. The tea was out of the world. So was the conversation. You know, Bijender was once hijacked by the ULFA, who made him lug timber for a week. And Sarwan squeezes Jaipur, Srinagar, Kolkata and Ahmedabad, all in a month. A book deal on my mind, I headed for the driver’s seat. But the silently suffering majority would have none of it. ‘‘Our way or highway,’’ they brayed. I had a good mind to drive away without them, but my innate decency triumphed. So, I gave in. But not without the bragging rights. They’re mine. Forever.
