P. Sainath

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It’s a
common form of transport in the countryside, and an income earner for truck or
lorry drivers travelling without a cargo – or after delivering one at its
destination. Anyone can use it – you can, too, though sometimes it’s not easy
to find or access the vehicle under the milling mob of humanity seeking to go
home after the weekly haat (rural market). In remote parts of rural
India, every other truck and lorry driver is also a freelance cabbie when the malik
is not looking. In regions where decent transport is rare, he performs an
invaluable service – for a fee, of course.

This was at
a village close to the highway in Koraput, Odisha, and people were scrambling
to get home as darkness fell. It’s hard to figure out in these situations
exactly how many have clambered on board. Only the driver has some idea because
he’s collected money from each of them. But even his estimate may not be
accurate – as he might charge a slightly different fee for different groups, or
for people carrying some poultry or a goat or bigger headloads with them. He
might even charge less from some of his older people or repeat customers. He
drops his passengers off at some familiar points on the main highway. From
there they trek swiftly in the gathering darkness, through the forests, back to
their homes. 

Many had travelled over 30 kilometres to reach
the haat and their homes are often far off from the highway. For between
two and five rupees, they could travel up to 20 kilometres this way in Koraput
1994, depending on the terrain and the difficulties involved. The rates could also
vary slightly from driver to driver, subject to the urgency of need and immediate
bargaining power of both sides. My own problem with travelling in this form of
transport – and I’ve covered thousands of kilometres that way – lies in
convincing the driver that I need to be in the rear with his human cargo. Maybe
even on top of his cabin at times, but not in it.

It made no
sense to the amiable and friendly man steering this vehicle. “But I have an ishtereo,
a cassette player in my cabin, sir, and you can listen as we travel,” he said.
What’s more, he had a great collection of pirated music. I have journeyed that way
too, sometimes, and enjoyed it. But the objective here was to figure out what
sort of a day the villagers he was transporting in his lorry had had at the haat.
I pleaded that I needed to take photographs quickly as the light was fading. I
needed to converse with his homebound travellers. Finally, he relented, though
dismayed that someone he saw as belonging to what he perhaps believed was the
genteel world of metro India, should be such an idiot.

However, he
did help me clamber on to the back where I was also hauled up by welcoming
hands. All the tired out haat returnees were no less affable and
accommodating, even the goats and the poultry. And I had some great conversations
but managed only a decent photograph or two before it fell totally dark.



A shorter version of this piece appeared in The
Hindu BusinessLine of September 22, 1995.

‘But I have an ishtereo, sir’

‘പക്ഷെ എന്‍റെ വണ്ടിയില്‍ സ്റ്റീരിയോ ഉണ്ട് സര്‍’

‘लेकिन मेरे पास इश्टीरिओ है महाराज’

'ਪਰ ਮੇਰੇ ਕੋਲ਼ ਇੱਕ ਸਟੀਰਿਓ ਹੈ, ਸਰ'

‘କିନ୍ତୁ ମୋ ପାଖରେ ଏକ ଷ୍ଟେରିଓ ଅଛି, ସାର୍‍’

‘ಆದರೆ ಸರ್, ನನ್ನ ಕ್ಯಾಬಿನ್ನಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಇಷ್ಟಿರಿಯೋ ಇದೆ ಅಲ್ವಾ?

'પણ મારી પાસે ઇષ્ટિરીઓ છે, સાહેબ'

‘মোৰ যে এটা ইষ্টেৰিঅ’ আছে ছাৰ’

‘కానీ నా దగ్గర ఇష్టీరియో ఉంది, సర్’

'আমার কাছে কিন্তু একটা হেব্বি ইস্টিরিও আছে স্যার'

‘என்னிடம் இஷ்டீரியோ இருக்கு சார்’

‘पण सर, माझ्याकडे इश्टिरिओ आहे ना’

’لیکن میرے پاس ایک اشٹیریو ہے، سر‘

Koraput

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‘But I have an ishtereo, sir’

Many countryside lorry drivers, like the one steering this vehicle in Koraput, act as freelance cabbies when the malik is not looking

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