The Pickle Post

by Kunal Agarwal on 11 Sep 2009

People in the trucking trade reminisce a lot. Everything has history and a lineage which over the years takes on an image of idealism and romanticism. This, however, is not the usual sort of musing that afflicts many like you and me, who have lived in the cities for long.

Most of us have come across stories of biscuit tins, Marmite spread, 1 rupee movie tickets, Doordarshan and even tales of Sunday visits to the zoo and so on and so forth. Indeed, many of us have even lived through these times, playing them back like a broken record to anyone who has the time to visualize or listen. Those were the days of laid-back goodness, of simplicity and frugality, quality and durability. They don’t make ‘em like they used to as the saying goes. Black and white photographs of a bygone era gloss over the mundane, the world on paper, like in the mind, was two toned: good and even better.

Looking back at a photo of oneself, younger and with the elegance afforded by hues of gray, one cannot help but think of the good old days, when everything was possible. As my grandmother often says, to quote Byron, “The days of our youth, are the days of our glory.”

This I can handle. I can spend hours with my Grandmom talking about her De Soto or her many trips to the hills in the fifties. The Clarke’s hotel, Kwality restaurant in Dehradun, even shopping at Hammer’s on Mall road. This is the sort of stuff that makes you wish that it was a misty, cold day full of tea, shawls and strawberry jam. Quality sentiments about a quality time, palatable and pleasing, warm and fuzzy, full of nostalgia and romance.

Yes, all of this I can handle. But the sort of nostalgia that surrounds the transporter’s lot is an entirely different matter. I’ve had numerous conversations with people I work with and I have concluded quite clearly that they are all a bit batty. One must remember that people in this trade of transport are by nature movers and shakers. They are by definition objects in action, moments in motion and fellows in flux. They are a motley crew to say the least and a man and his truck, like grease and a monkey, are seldom parted. Once a transporter, always a transporter.

Most transport companies tend to be a wild mix of folk from across the country. Think of them as armies with no semblance of order, hygiene or scruples. But the indisputable fact remains that they are all joined at the hip, in a city which is a second home. This is the crux of my troubles. The lack of a common past has led them to invent their own. After all, without a sense of linkage it becomes far too difficult to acquire a sense of comfort. However, they have no concept of Delhi in the 60s, 70s, 80s or maybe even the 90s to reminisce about. In fact, they don’t even come from the same countryside or rural setting. Very little apart from their profession draws them together and in the absence of any middle ground, the transporter takes matters into his own hands.

This invented sense of common history is something of great curiosity and can leave even the most rational person completely boggled. The other day, I happened to walk in on one such post-lunch round table conference between Mr. Jha, a Bihari transporter extraordinaire, and Mr. Tiwari, a supervisor from back and beyond Uttar Pradesh. The topic at hand was the evolution of animal life over the years in our great nation. Normally animals are a safe common topic; after all, a parrot in Punjab is a parrot in Patna. Or so I had been made to believe thus far.

Now you must understand the protocol that must be followed in these conversations. The supreme rule is that one must never disagree with the other, this is about building bridges not burning them. So, true to this rule the conversation proceeded at a leisurely pace, interspersed with several onion-laced burps and belches followed by a guttural invocation of “Ram Ram.”  Mr. Jha had tabled the idea that in the old days monkeys were calmer animals who roamed about peacefully and perhaps even hummed a merry tune before asking permission from an orchard owner with the humble request of “Kind sir, may I pilfer a plum?” Those were the days, he said, when man and beast were in unison and harmony.

Tiwari was a bit stunned. Unable to think clearly in response, he placed his white-plastic tea cup on the table and nodded slightly. The nodding continued for a few seconds, allowing him to shake off the cobwebs in his supremely lethargic head. He finally found a suitable answer and proudly replied that this was true indeed. In the old days, he continued, the monkeys were gentle and noble, he even recounted the time when one of them, upon seeing a lonely 8 year old Tiwari, had jumped from the tree above to entertain him with a game of hopscotch, followed by a peppy jig and a warm hug. Back then, Tiwari claimed, Hinduism, nature and mankind were untainted and joined together by a string of integrity and purity. Jha sighed and looked on wistfully.

Evolution too was discussed. Jha, unfazed by Tiwari’s agreement, responded that in his childhood he had once spoken to a monkey, the exact conversation was a little hazy now but it was definitely a meaningful exchange, not like modern day small-talk. They both resonated in union and nodded in sync, having successfully stitched together a fabric of something inane and odd but common. To bring closure to it all it was necessary to compare these monkeys of yore, serene and coy, with the sinister simians of today. Tiwari brought up the example of the flying monkey that had devastated Delhi and Jha saw his challenge and raised him one further by telling him of the neighbourhood scoundrel who had stolen his phone, punched in a STD number and left the mobile on some terrace thereby racking up a tremendous bill. That modern-day menace, Jha exclaimed, was indicative of the times. Not like the good old days, that’s for sure. “Ram Ram.”