Naturally, the tumult of life can’t always be blocked out. Weary road warriors can rest, relax, perhaps even reflect on an insightful comment or two from a smiling waiter or an unlettered cook behind the hot tandoor. In the midst of this relentless flow, dhabas can be a kind of sanctuary. Villagers will sometimes use the asphalt as a place to dry their grains, with little recognition of the many tons of steel and rubber whizzing by. A merry wedding procession may block a thoroughfare at one place, while children play cricket dangerously close to speeding vehicles at another. A dizzying reel of life passes through a car window here: It’s quite common to happen across horrifying head-on collisions, or trucks lying belly-up, or crushed animals in the middle of the road. At their best, they are places to catch a breath and process the kaleidoscopic images that assault the traveler on the Indian highway. Yet dhabas are not simply convenient restaurants for a tasty bite. “They are the closest to what you get at Indian homes, where great recipes are handed down through generations.” “Dhabas remain a window into our culture and customs,” says Mayur Sharma, a popular author and television host for food shows. The transformation reflects the changing food habits, mores and middle-class preferences of 21st-century Indians. What were once just dusty joints for sleepy truckers have become throbbing highway destinations, some with air-conditioned dining areas, clean washrooms and an array of food choices, including of course dal and roti. Whenever I remember the kindness and wisdom of that anonymous driver, I also recollect something else: the otherworldly taste of that simple, delicious meal of dal and roti served in a truck-stop hut of bamboo and thatch, one of countless such roadside restaurants known in India as dhabas.Īs India has progressed, especially since the economic reforms of the early 1990s, dhabas have changed too. The driver asked a fellow trucker to give me a ride back. Or else you’ll end up being a useless, illiterate driver like me, living and dying on the road.” Huck Finn faded in my imagination. After paying for the dinner, the driver, perhaps detecting my nervousness, took pity on me. We ate silently, intermittently licking the thick dal off our fingers. Another plate of raw diced onions and whole green chilies was placed in the middle. Before we knew it, we were served hot tandoori roti (handmade flatbread made of unleavened wheat flour baked in a coal-fired oven called a tandoor) and steaming hot spicy dal (lentils) on steel plates that were set on a wooden plank across the cot. We sat on a rope cot called a charpoi, surrounded by similar cots occupied by soot-covered drivers. I was famished, and already missing home. The driver and his assistant invited me to join them. A big, leafy tree stood silently under a starry sky, overhanging a tire-repair shanty. Several other trucks were parked in the shadows. As darkness descended, we pulled up next to a dimly lit shack for dinner. Trucks plied this main artery around the clock. From the passenger seat I looked out onto the opencast mines and smoke-billowing factories that dotted the area. With only a few rupees in my pocket, I hitched a ride on a coal truck, driven by a kindly middle-aged man traveling west. The journey began with a short walk from our modest, rented house about 140 miles (225 kilometers) west of Kolkata (Calcutta) to the centuries-old, two-lane Grand Trunk Road, stretching from eastern India all the way to Kabul in Afghanistan. I wanted to be like Huck Finn, free and spunky, creating my own path. When I was 17, I left home in search of adventure, without telling my hardworking parents.
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