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Traveling on NICE corridor, if I roll down the windows while passing a slow truck, the steady drone of its nylon tyres on asphalt still bring back memories from childhood, of road trips all over India (by bus), baba and ma on either side. It started with Kashmir in 1975, when I was still hanging like a baby chimp from their hands, complaining of aching legs from all the walking, and went on till 1992, when we did Bandhavgarh in our uncle's Premier President (Fiat 1100). By then I was bold enough to walk with nothing but a sturdy twig in hand on to an oncoming tiger that kept roaring and approaching our huts, only to discover it was a bellowing ox returning home at twilight. Never been very fond of walking, however. That was probably the last trip with both of them. But today when I rolled down my window, I remembered my first journey by car. Not a taxi, an actual private car.
Why roll down the window, you ask? Well, with diesel prices having touched Rs 100, I drive at 65-70 kmph on an expressway for optimal economy, without the airconditioning, worrying about my depleting reserves and how I can't afford a new petrol car anymore. And then I see a bunch of laborers huddled together on a tractor returning home, at twilight, but not belligerent as the ox from Bandhavgarh. My worries melt, my privilege at being able to afford fuel for my car stings like a bee, as I quickly roll up the window and pretend not to see. I want to think of the lifespan of oxen. Just then the eyes of a little girl catch mine, and I roll down the window again and smile at her. She's going home too, with her laborer parents, who couldn't afford to hold her hand all day. Nestled in the lap of her mum, she smiles back, feeling as safe as I did hanging like a chimp. Nestled. Did you ever pronounce Nestlé as nestle? I didn't. I was taught not to ignore stressed vowels. The stress of remembering all that, I tell you, takes away all possible abandon from one's childhood.
That night my uncle and his friend came to take me from Durgapur to Dhanbad. Ma was already in Dhanbad, to participate in her younger brother's wedding, and I was supposed to go with baba a couple of days later. It was to be our first inter-city road trip by scooter, a distance of 130 km through non-existent roads of Bengal and Bihar (now Jharkhand). We had open helmets with goggles ready and faux leather jackets...but baba got hospitalized just a day before with acute chest pain. When my uncle and his friend came to pick me up in a black Ambassador, I was thrilled beyond belief. These men being senior cops, it was easy for them to arrange a meeting with my dad at the hospital late in the night, after which we took off.
I couldn't believe I was traveling by car, and not a taxi. We couldn't afford taxi rides much, so even that was a luxury, but this was like a fairy tale come true. The entire rear seat was mine; I could choose to see anything on either side of the car. It was dark, the nylon on tarmac had a familiar buzz, as we crossed one truck after another. The lean, wiry uncle who was driving kept his loaded holster on the dash.
Roll up the window, Shuvo, it's cold.
But I never catch cold, don't you know?
The weak halogen headlights seemed to fuse with the fog ahead in the cold night and I suddenly had the brilliant idea to ask them if they had fueled up. To this both of them laughed. Thanks for reminding, Shuvo. Eleven-year-old me felt mighty important that night, smugly looking out at the darkness and watching the even darker trees pass us by. They had acknowledged my clever idea after all! It was my first road trip, of which I have mostly olfactory memories of diesel fumes and nightly dust.
Rolling down the window and slowing down on a highway does have some benefits after all, and not all of it environmental.
