#SalmanKhanVerdict: Don't tell an Indian to get off the road
On the main road that leads up to my house in south Delhi, there is a stall that sells "mashhoor naan chole". During day the stall owner serves hundreds of naans to the hungry residents of Delhi. His wife and two-year-old son can often be seen hanging out by the shade of the peepal tree next to the stall. Among other residents on this street are a fruit seller, familiar to me on my daily walks by his urges to sell me his best lot, a transgender teashop owner with a black dog named Lucky, and a paan wala who somehow squeezes in his 2x2 ft cardboard stall. During summers, there is a watermelon guy who stocks up on both watermelon and coconut water. There is also a shikanji wala. And much to my delight, I once bought kilos of chuswa aam from a real farmer on this very road who had very rough hands and blackened nails. At night, I have often seen these stall owners curled up on their makeshift beds next to their stalls. Lucky the black dog, too, can be seen snoozing with the chaiwala.
We Indians have a deep connection to our roads. Thus, it was blasphemous to hear some people say that we should get off them in relation to the Salman Khan hit-and-run case. This has hurt the sentiments of a billion people, no less. Roads are our life. Roads are where we eat. Roads are where we play. Roads are where we pee and poop. Roads are home to our beloved cows and dogs and donkeys and pigs. Roads are the places where our grandfathers and grandmothers have passed their lives on their chairs and charpoys watching the people go by. Roads are where we meet ideas, cultures, and lifestyles.
Roads are seat of our gustatory bliss. Not until recent years, the word "restaurant" did not exist in an Indian's dictionary. And the place we go still to satisfy ourselves after bland soulless food of the restaurant is the road. Name one Indian who hasn't lined up for a plate of gol-gappa or a sizzling tikka or spicy vada-pao. Who has not stopped over for a glass of cane juice mixed with lime juice and chat masala on a hot day? Long before the Americans invented junk food delivered to your car, Indians had been pulling over for a dauna of pakoda or a pattal of kulfi in their bullock carts. In some places, one may even find bhang laced thandai, todi, and other local liquors. When it rains, we get restless until we spot a bhutta wala and pull over for the coal-roasted cob slathered with lime, salt and chilli.
Roads are where we marry. Can you imagine a wedding without a baraat? And a baraat without a song and dance? And where, if I may ask, are these beautiful ladies and gents dressed in their fineries are to dance to show their joy? Where will the ghodi stand and dulha wait? Where will the band play? On the roads of course!
Roads are our playground. Thousands of children have grown up playing gulli-danda, cricket, staappu, gittak on the roads. On the way back from their school, they have bought chuskis, churans, and chaat from the people on the road. It is not uncommon to see a group of men playing cards on their plastic chairs on the roadside and if you pass a group in the villages the men will have a hukka to go with it. In winters, we can see hundreds of people covered in their blankets and huddled around small fires sipping on their ginger tea.
Roads are where we pray. Blocks on streets are devoted to ratri jagrans, bhajan sandhyas, and sangats. During Durga Puja, Krishna Janamashtmi, Ganesh Chaturthi, Id-ul-Fitr and Dussehera roads take on special religious significance. Effigies are burnt; statues are installed in big pandals with robotics and loud speakers. Around Guruparb, food is distributed along the road. Benevolent bhakts will forcibly stop your car to hand you a dauna of prasad or at least a glass of sherbet. Crackers are invariably burnt on the roads. Holi too is played on the roads. Old Delhi roads around Id call to us with their numerous culinary delights.
Almost all localities in Delhi have a weekly haat on the road. The hawkers eagerly wait for the cars to leave and spread their goods. Most of the locals end up shopping their week's supplies. Ladies can be seen haggling for vegetables, plastic containers, lingerie and even bed covers. Some of these weekly bazaars are right alongside big malls. You can hear squeals of delight and peals of laughter when Indians run into roadside shops even as they were entering the malls. Somehow nothing compares to a joy of munching on a bag of peanuts while you bargain for a kilo of aam.
Indian roads are living entities, not just "arteries for transport". In our conception, roads are celebration of humanity. On the new Yamuna Expressway, within a day people were seen getting chaadars and picnic baskets to celebrate. It was hard to convince them about this new "USA style" of road where cars travel in high speed with complete disregard for flora and fauna. Don't let this convince you that roads are new to the Indian psyche. In fact, Indian roads date back to more than 5,000 years ago. Along some of these glorious roads, a whole style of living emerged, cultures mingled, and our ancestors commingled. The result is what we are now: a composite culture of food and genetic cocktail of myriad races.
Even in death, the road is indispensable. Processions of people follow an Indian on the charpoy. It is almost as if that charpoy never left the road. The charpoy on the road is a symbol of continuity of life and cyclical nature of death. An Indian is born on the road, grows up on the road, and dies on the road. Roads are part of our inner landscape. Roads are where India thrives. So if you are one of us, why not take a walk next time you go drinking? Breathe in a little of the chaos and the crowd. Get a taste of the real India.