Jhatka Ride

 I have this unadulterated antipathy towards `forwards’ via Whatsapp.  It won’t be an exaggeration to say that my fingers are wired to the auto-mode to delete the item instantly.  But let me not digress at the very beginning, this is not about forwards.  That can wait for another day.  Very rarely a `forward’ triggers a spark in a writer to hark back to something in his own bag of experiences.  And follow through with a piece of his own, which may or may not have seen the light of day otherwise.  One such prompt a year back ignited a spark in me to reminisce about a commonplace occurrence in mofussil towns of India in the 60s – a ride on a horse cart.  Yes, the humble Jhatka (horse cart), which was perceived a quantum jump from the bullock cart of earlier years because of the increment in speed purportedly achieved by the former. Although one has seen some bullocks clocking up higher velocity than horses! The `forward’ in question was a piece on a horse cart ride the author had taken from the train station to his home in a small town in Thamizh Nadu.  Most of us in that generation have had similar experiences in our childhood and this is about mine.

We used to live in a place called New Colony in Thuthukudi those days.  Most of the commute was done on one’s own legs because generally the distances were pretty short.  Those who were better off owned bicycles and the upgrades were like cycle rickshaw, horse cart for public transportation, apart from bus. When a family had to make that cherished, occasional trip from home to the bus stand or railway station for a holiday, with a multitude of people and assorted bags, the jhatka was the answer.  Even then a couple of sprightly youngsters were asked to walk or jog along the vehicle for want of space inside.  There were about half a dozen jhatkas plying their business in that area and we were all familiar with the names of the jhatka owners as well the horses.  Our favourite jhatka owner was Karuppan (meaning Blackman).  There is no racial slant, intended or otherwise, involved in that name in that area at that time, so please don’t pounce on me for committing a political impropriety. Black was the predominant skin colour of the locals, with allowance for various hues of black in complexion.  But, to put things in perspective, the name might have come about because the parents wanted to give the child the exalted name of a local God, Karuppasamy, which later got truncated to Karuppan.

Karuppan was the first port of call normally when a family wanted to make the periodic, heavy-duty trip with a fully laden cart to the train station.  Our protagonist was about four feet tall when he is fully erect and stretched a bit, with the top of his head almost measuring up to the face of the horse, if the horse is standing still and not attempting to climb up from its usual horizontal position. You get the picture?  His midriff had a good protrusion because obviously he ate well and there was very little space else, except for his pot-belly, for the digested food to get gladly assimilated into.  So, the first impression any quizzical onlooker would have was that it was going to be a mammoth task for the man to assume his driving position in the cart.  The onlooker need not have worried.  Once the time of departure arrived, the man and the animal worked in amazing unison as Karuppan jumped up with alacrity, placing one foot on the wheel and assumed his assigned seat.  That is an exaggeration because after everybody and everything requiring transportation had been accommodated in the cart, what was left was just enough space for one butt of his to rest on the cart.  But for that small vacant perch, he would have hung out completely and we could have none of that.

Karuppan knew that his rather emaciated horse was not a thoroughbred and we all knew that too.  But no one had told the horse that, so it started off in a brisk canter, as if it had the strength and mien of a race horse, -- may be, just to pretend to impress the customers.  But after just a few steps, reality prevailed and it sobered down to a slow trot which translated to about one kilometre per hour kind of speed.  It could not have miraculously done anything faster because out of the earnings, a very meagre amount was spent on the sustenance of the horse.  It did not look like there was any apparent long-term plan to invest in the horse to bring about a drastic change in status-quo, due to the current and projected income-expenditure patterns.  It was all very short term and what mattered was the next two kilometres, that’s about it.

This piece will not do justice to itself if it fails to describe the cart involved.  The main arched, canopy which provided the occupants some relief from the elements itself was antiquated, very plain and non-descript.  It could have done with a touch of paint, not having seen that luxury in many years. The two large wheels, on the move, were somewhat wobbly around the axils and they seldom moved in a straight circular motion.  There was a hint of a gentle, crisscross movement as they rolled, pretty much like the gait of the models when they walk the ramp.  There was a cushion inside the cart, made of dried grass which had metamorphosed into powder over a period, inside an old bed cover.  That provided some protection to the riders from shocks pulsing up from the roads, that essential ingredient of any such trip.  A sack hung down the bottom of the cart and contained some grass, supposedly refreshment for the horse if it collapsed during a ride. Some upgraded carts had a dirty length of cloth decoratively draped as a curtain at the back, to provide the riders some privacy from the prying eyes of the town populace.  But Karuppan’s cart did not boast of any such frills and was rudimentary in all respects.

In Thuthukudi, the bus stand was between our home and the railway station, meaning the cart would have to pass the bus stand if the station was the destination.  And the horse carts were all parked at the bus stand almost permanently, awaiting business. There is a reason why I am laying out the topography for you.  The process of going to the station involved, as a first step, the boys of the household running to the bus stand, looking out for a cart and invariably snagging Karuppan for the ride.  Next, all the people and the luggage would be stuffed into the rather elastic inside of the cart until there was no space to squeeze out.  The horse always sensed that the cart was overloaded and resented that. It protested meekly for a minute, shuffling its feet without moving forward an inch.  After some expert cajoling by Karuppan, the journey started.  The horse moved at its own customary pace, as if it had a prior, iron-clad contract of partnership with the train that the latter would not depart before the load is transferred successfully.  On the way, there was always a minor incident.  When the cart was crossing the bus stand, invariably the horse made an involuntary turn towards its `shed’, its resting place while not plying the trade.  Karuppan had to use the carrot-and-stick method (except that the carrot was missing here) to coax the horse to understand that the time was for work, not rest and that the desire for recuperation had to remain suspended for a while longer. 

Finally, after some anxious moments when the horse thought it was highly overburdened and firmly refused further co-operation. It had to be bullied, begged and treated with fresh-grass-incentive for any further progress.  When the destination was reached, the whole cart-load, including the baggage, heaved a collective sigh of relief.  This whole scenario had been repeated in our lives multiple times, but as children we never got bored or tired of this journey.

My dear wife is ambivalent about this.  She thinks we could have all walked to the station with the cart left carrying just the luggage, so long as there was no really superannuated individual in the group.  That would have been fairer to the horse.  But then, she also says after she read this piece, that the experience itself was invaluable and cannot be artificially replicated.  No amount of wide-bodied-jet travel comes anywhere near the jhatka trip – not by a few thousand miles!!  So, for once, she did not have to frown at me and pass a serious indictment!! God bless her.