Seven Oaks Magazine.

Seven Oaks staff contributor Tejpal Singh Swatch is currently driving the Punjab in conjunction with fraternal responsibilities of a matrimonial nature – think “He Ain’t Heavy” meets Monsoon Wedding. Tejpal pulled over long enough to pen this dispatch.

Driving these roads is an event unlike anything else. The only North American experience I can compare it to would have to be a cab ride in a big city. Jerry Seinfeld had a good bit about it. For some reason, a false sense of security seems to take over when in the back of a New York cab/Punjabi sport utility. It all doesn’t seem quite real back there; it all seems detached.

The first mistake you make is assuming the questionable individual driving you from here to there is a professional. In big city North America, there is at least a semblance of qualification, clearly displayed in the form of an operator’s license. Here, there is none. Individuals are hired based on reputation alone. In fact, much of what goes on here seems to go on reputation and past experience. We’ve had two drivers since we’ve been here, alternating as one or the other gets busy. I have not seen either’s license nor would it matter if I did. In these parts, if you have enough money you could become president.

Strangely, that’s not so different for you Americans. But, I digress. My point is you can get a driver’s license with your next fill up, along with pretty much any other official-looking document.

The first driver is an aggressive, pompous speed demon, one so concerned with the strange aesthetic of his beloved vehicle that he has removed the seatbelt buckles from the rear benches because he doesn’t like how they look. Since I’ve been here I’ve worn my seatbelt once, when I was sitting in the front seat, and that time on the prompting of the driver who was afraid that a group of cops up ahead would extract money for the offence.

I don’t like this one bit. In fact, it drives me insane with anger and fear. I suffered a fairly serious and painful injury in a car accident two years back and since then I have become grim about seatbelt use. Not having buckled up while careening on these treacherous roads is something that weighs heavily on the back of my mind, but there is nothing I can do about it. I just sit, in a ball, fists clenched, praying for safety and flinching at all the numerous close calls we have with out-of-control buses and trucks.

I am convinced that our second driver is a drug addict. His long pinky fingernail, his glassy, drooping eyes and his drawled voice have convinced me of that. He seems to have fallen ass backwards into this job, having had the right friends and family, and is now milking the work for all he’s worth. He seems to know his job as a driver-for-hire is one ill-gotten by luck and constantly threatened by his sometimes fickle and, for him, morally inconvenient passengers, but still, like any dedicated addict, he insists on his habit. As a person, he’s a good fellow and all, friendly enough, funny as hell, but I don’t need anyone with any possibly impaired judgment taxiing me around these perilous roads.

I don’t know if I can properly describe how nuts it is over here. I lack the capacity. I am filming as much I can through the windshield of our hired sport utility, but even this is inadequate. Would you understand if I’ve told you I’ve seen the aftermaths of no less than 12 serious accidents? That I have driven down the wrong lane of the Punjab’s major highway no less than three times? Do you know what it’s like to see trucks so full of people that they are openly hanging off the sides as they hurtle down the highway at speeds in excess of 100 km/h? Can you imagine what it’s like passing a truck, so ballooned with a sack of grain that its size has doubled, on a one-lane country road? If I said to you that most of the roads here resemble a grey, hard, lethal smattering of oatmeal, would you understand? Have you ever swerved to avoid cows, goats, packs of stray dogs, elephants and llamas?

Today, as we stood parked on the side of the road waiting for an uncle to run an errand, a tractor rolled by pulling a trolley loaded with a huge, quivering mass of cow dung. My brother and I were shocked into a half-absurd, half-disgusted silence as we watched this travesty creak by. It’s something you never expect, one of those things that is a hyperbole because it seems, at the time of its use, to be completely outside any reality. I thought the event warranted recognition and a moment after the trolley rolled by, I voiced it.

“That was, literally, a load of crap. It was positively heaving with shit.”

I got a laugh, but one more nervous than mirthful.

This is what will get you most when you come to the Punjab and, I imagine, most of India. A place crowded with cheap, tin-plated cars, three-wheel taxis, scooters and motorcycles loaded with entire families, bicycles ridden slowly by old men, colourful trucks, buses with frames bent dangerously out of shape, all running at insane speeds on torn roads sided with random fruit stands, junk food vendors, concrete restaurants, dirty storefronts with endless signs for cellular phones, Nike shoes, cold drinks, “STD PCO ISD” phone booths, and people -- oh so many people.

I am getting away from myself. And this has gone on for too long. The scene has been set and the elements are in place. You shall get many more a story from me about these roads.

But, if it’s not too much to ask, say a little prayer for your correspondent, even if you’re not that religious. A little prayer to keep me from becoming a smear on these crazy roads.