I'm going back a decade or two. The most memorable part of my road trips with my parents is me lounging in the back seat, sometimes sitting low but mostly lying down, with the windows open, my head propped up against a bundled up jacket on the car door. That way the wind didn't mess up my hair and I could look at the sky and the occasional hills, that would poke up into the window frame. I would stare endlessly at the telephone cables, swooping low and rising up again till they reach the next pole. I would judge their symmetry and predict how high or low the next one would be. Sometimes birds sat on them and sometimes the cables vanished till the next post. I would fall asleep gradually, but since I can never sleep well unless it's my bed and it's silent, car honks, speed breakers, or my folks talking would wake me. I would turn over, because it gave me a back or leg ache to lie in one position, and listen to the cassettes they were playing. They had then and always have had a good taste in music, both. I liked what they played. They would take turns driving.
Sometimes I tried to be a part of their conversation but had less to contribute apart from how I was feeling (many times, sick), what township came next and whether we were going to stop there. My dad pointed out many things on the road, like a well-known culvert, some funny buildings, what the local people were doing in their fields and what it was called, and animals, especially the monkey duo with crazy names, who we met on one trip. Only once, he said something which I've only recently remembered. My mom likes wide, smooth roads with big, thriving trees on both sides. I think I do too. He mentioned it to her, and I poked in to understand what that meant. Ever since (but I stopped when the trips stopped), whenever we passed a road like that, I would tell her that this must be a road she liked. She would agree. Always. We would stop for puris, daab-pani (rarely, though, since I didn't like it much), to spot a rhino, at the circuit houses (where my mom was treated royally), for some booze, to buy me an exclusive can of coke, to look at the slopes of a healthy and expansive tea garden, to look at the monkeys at the temple of a village (especially the one who imitated the priest, a hilarious fella), to say hello to family on the way, for me to puke and gulp some water when I felt sick (especially on the winding hilly roads), to eat at dhabas with hyperactive hundred year olds wanting to come home with us, for me to take some pictures with my now ancient camera. Sometimes, I don't know why we stopped but I always liked a break to get down and stretch my legs. They would switch drivers then. Sometimes not, and just talk with the car doors open, the fields on both sides, breezy, sunny, clean and easy, watch the cars go by and the open landscape. They would smoke Wills.
I can't even remember who the others were apart from them, when we were driving back to home one time, and somehow, it was nightfall (we tried and completed all these 8-9 hours journeys in the daytime). There were 2 cars somehow and I don't remember who was driving but my folks were there in the same car with me. Me was in the backseat as usual, and I looked up between the seats when the driver remarked surprised. Wow! About 20 elephants stretched across the straight road ahead of us and no room for even a cycle to squeeze through, many kids among them and they were Huge. Ooh. It was was too exciting since we stopped and the friends in the car behind us stopped and discussed what to do. Duh. You could not go through them. Well, retreat it was. We stayed somewhere for the night I think, because I remember it was late and a pink lodge is swimming somewhere in that memory, or maybe we tried again later after they cleared out and got back to the journey home. The episode was a sight, in the beam of the car lights, in which I saw one of the most vivid memories of those times.
My things would be packed into one of their bags, usually by one of them. When I grew a little older I carried my walkman with me (the oldies were ancient now, I couldn't bear it anymore). Usually no one would accompany us and usually, these journeys were from home to Nani's place, where we would stay for a couple of nights and drive back. It was about 450 kms and we covered it in about 8 hours which was the average I calculated, with our stops and all. Leaving Nani's, I could always count on her to stand at the big balcony, looking down, in her white saree sometimes draping her head, rarely unaccompanied. I would always turn back and see her there and wave and she would wave back a mental Khuda Hafiz. Then we passed those huge gates and the road was ours again.
But, now. It's already a new decade and I am in my office. Nani is no more. We have a different car. Two houses. The landscape of 37 has changed. The hills that prequel the planes have been cut further and have turned an ugly, bare red. The towns are hotter and bigger. The circuit houses renovated into unfriendly smoothness, with no goats grazing around. The phone cables are ignored by me.The puris and peras are uneaten. And I am without my folks on those journeys but sometimes on short ones with friends, drinking my beer and smoking my Wills.
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