Karnal to Pipli, a stretch of some 35 kilometres, was the most joyous part. I was walking at a good speed, frequently looking out
for a passing vehicle I could hitch a lift from. It was a dry stretch. Since childhood I had been into long distance running and skating, so all those kilometres going by was nothing new, yet I
was now beginning to feel worn out.
On the horizon I spotted a traditional bullock cart with an old man driving. I asked him in the local dialect if I could hop on and with
the sheer hospitality of rural India, he readily expressed delight at giving a lift to a city dweller. Welcoming me aboard, we chatted, until fatigued, I fell asleep on the straw he was carrying.
As we approached his village, he invited me home for a delicious glass of lassi, or sweetened buttermilk. I woke to the smell of jaggery, deep in a village, where he introduced me to his three sons, their wives and children. I was treated to paranthas and dahi and of course, lassi. The family was happy to welcome a stranger in their midst, and I was touched by the simplicity of the lives they were leading.
Their home was two kilometres from the highway and the eldest son insisted on dropping me back to the highway. In the gathering dusk,
I was back on National Highway No.1, the famed Grand Trunk Road, to continue my journey. Striding two kilometers, a truck whizzed past me, and I raised a reluctant thumb sign which had worked well enough for me. The Sardarji asked me to hop right in.
Involved in yet another conversation I discussed the lifestyle of truckers and my benefactors’ experiences driving the length and
breadth of the country, while he readily empathised with my "Faith Safari" as I had christened it en route. He dropped me off at Ambala, where he was going to get his vehicle serviced, and I soon found myself at the bus terminus, right on the highway itself. I was tempted to board a bus but I was now reluctant to do this journey any other way but on the wings of faith.
Just ahead of the bus stand, an Ambassador stopped and a Colonel driving to Shimla offered to drop me off at the outskirts of Chandigarh. En route we stopped at the Verka Milk bar where I was treated to sweetened flavored milk and a kaju pinni. Chandigarh was home turf. I managed with 4 quick changes within the city itself to
get dropped off right outside my house, the last lift being from the same friend whose father had informed my parents about my incorrigible habit of offering lifts to strangers.
My parents were truly shocked when I told them my experiences of the day. Yet I had reaffirmed to myself that it is in the nature of
Indians to welcome strangers with faith. And somewhere along the way, my impounded scooter was returned to me with strict admonitions.
A couple of months later, returning to Chandigarh after visiting a friend in Delhi, I had the entire Sunday stretching ahead of me. It was the end of February and the warm sun mingled with the cool wind. I reached the bypass point
of Delhi to learn that there was a bus strike and only private operators would be plying, so I could look forward to a couple of hours of waiting. With just a shoulder bag slung across, I decided to try my luck at hitching lifts across the stretch of 250 kilometres.
