On the road to Nekpur

Manmohan Singh — not the former economist-turned-Prime Minister but the truck driver-cum-guarantor in a fleet-owning transport company in NCR — adesh-ed: “I will not be home when you visit Kannauj, but can I suggest you visit Golu Yadav whom you know well.”

I “amen” ned.

By the way, when truck drivers disclose their hometown, they tell the district name, not their actual basti. The past week, when I was travelling in eastern Uttar Pradesh, reuniting with the long-haul truck drivers I know as part of my Parivar Connect Yatra (PCY), I faced this challenge.

“Golu, mein Lucknow se aa raha hoon. Expressway se. Kannauj Exit paunch gaya. Abhi bata, kaha aa naa hai?” (Golu, I am coming from Lucknow through the Expressway. Reached Kannauj exit. Tell me, where to come)

That’s when the real adventure began. Golu started directing me with some tongue-twisting names (for me, at least!). It became clear that his house was not in the city or town of Kannauj, but nestled somewhere in the heart of the district.

I handed the phone to Utkarsh Patel, my driver companion from Lucknow — a twenty-ish truck driver-turned-Uber owner and understood Golu’s directions.

Believe me, my final destination was 30km away. Two-lane state highways/roads. Built by Mulayam or his son Akhilesh Yadav or Yogi Adityanath— the first two, ex-chief ministers and the last one- incumbent. I don’t care. But the carriageways are in excellent condition.

Nekpur Post is one thing I heard loudly and clearly.

I began to scan the roads for some signboards announcing “Nekpur” territory. No luck.

Utkarsh kept pinging Golu for directions every 5 km. After 45 minutes, someone turbaned with a towel waved at us, sitting on a motorbike.

And there he was, Golu. It had been more than six years since I last saw him, so I couldn’t recognize him at first. But his familiar smile and wave were unmistakable.

“Follow me,” Golu ordered, leading us down a narrow, single-lane path. Goats, sheep, and cattle shared the ‘road’ with us, and acres of drying corn fields stretched out on either side. It was like stepping into a scene from a Bharthiraja movie — rich and full of Indian village life.

Bumpy ride.

Soon, Golu halted. We parked our Wagon R in the empty paddy-drying area.

For the next 200 metres, we pillion-rode (Utkarsh and I) through a narrow two-wheeler-alone passage!

Suddenly, we were in a large open landscape with greenfield all around and a brick-and-mortar (unpainted) single-storey ghar on an elevated platform.

An eight-by-six-foot hay-roofed reception area greeted us.

One has to “stoop” two feet (from the ground) to gain entry into that cool shaded area.

Three nylon-roped cots awaited. Golu’s dad, in a towel wrapped around his waist covering up to his knee and a blue-collar t-shirt with “New York” emblazoned across the chest in white, smiled as a way of greeting. A week-long untrimmed salt and pepper beard.

Golu’s younger brother appeared with a 2.5-litre Sprite bottle filled with chilled water. (Yes, they have a fridge and an uninterrupted electric power supply!)

I hit the cot and stretched like Anantha Padmanabhaswami on his snake bed on the milky ocean. Remembered Road Pilot Nitin Sharma recommended beds and postures as the best remedy to relieve back pain during another village visit.

What is the point of visiting truck drivers’ hometowns and not entering their homes?

With Golu guiding us, we entered his house. In the front open yard, his mother, Mala Pushpa Devi ji, was busy frying puri, assisted by Shivani, a teenager in jeans and a dupatta covering his head.

Studying?

Shivani gave a dirty look.

Golu intervened. Shivani never went to school. She helps Golu’s mother manage the household, farms, and cattle.

Golu’s home took me back to my childhood, where I was used to the traditional manual grinding stone (for masala prep, chutney), dry atta maker, wood-fired stove, etc. Spacious rooms with a huge desert cooler. Speakers, Record players, TV. Yes, the refrigerator, too. A corner washroom in the open yard.

My village visits reconfirm that Indian long-haul truck drivers are NOT poor. Rich. Yes, Rich. They have large houses. Cattle. Land, of course, where they grow everything. Excess produce (paddy, vegetables, milk, etc.) beyond captive consumption is sold. Clean environment. Pollution? What’s that? Clean drinking water. Driving tractors is quite normal; I like playing it, too. From there, they graduate into trucking! No driver training school, Shiksha. Yes, some refinement is missing that needs to be bridged.

My disappointment(!) — I was not able to spot a single thatched-roof house! Satyajit Ray depicted and glorified poverty-ridden Bharat in his films! Not that they did not exist — they certainly did — but not TODAY.

If they are so well off, why do they truck driving?

Utkarsh’s response was interesting. Truck drivers, hailing from the hinterland, are primarily farmers. Their physical presence is not needed all the time. They prefer to be home at the time of harvesting and sowing. What to do the rest of months? Instead of sitting at home tweedling their thumbs, why not put to use their tractor driving skills? And make some money. Bingo!

Golu’s responds to my query as to when I could see him back in NCR?

Two months later, he says. That timeframe is required for him to complete the harvesting in his farmland and ensure sowing for the next season. Like Amitabh Bachan. Double duty. Farmer and actor for the Bollywood hero. Our Golu is a farmer (asli, at that!) and truck driver.

***

The younger brother’s wife, who is feeding her son, is shy and keeps a distance. After much coaxing, she joins the gathering. She is a school-educated lady.

Over a plate of poori, aloo sabji and Mala Pushpa Devi ji’s speciality — aam ka achaar, she narrates her daily routine: waking up at three in the morning and tending to the cattle and managing the family farm and “shepherding” the parivar.

“Agale baar, akela mat aanaa. Bhabhi ko saath lekhi aanaa!” tells Golu’s mother. Now I have a sister too in dehati!

As a parting gift, she presented me with a large bottle full of aam ka achaar and five kilos of home-grown peanuts! How about a group photo? They joyfully join me. For me, it is an establishment shot (to show that I was truly visited Golu’s home!).

Utkarsh Patel mocks at me: “Had I known earlier, I would have brought a tempo to carry all these gifts from your driver connections!”

He is not off the mark. Once, a driver gifted me a month-old calf in Jharkhand. Don’t be silly. I accepted it as a gracious guest and returned it to him citing logistical nightmare of moving and accommodating the rural-friendly cohabitant of planet earth into my city landscape with less greenery!

One last word. On the way back, just a kilometre from Golu’s home, I spotted a red milestone, not taller than 5 cm, with words painted in white: Nekpur 0 Km.

Eureka! Eureka!