Delhi to Agra via NH2

#instatravel #motorcycling #heritage #dhaba #nh2 #royalenfield #incredibleindia #travelogram

And finally

The city gives up. Hauz Khas, where I stay, conurbates into more highrises and flyovers, reverberating underpasses and fringe residential areas before thinning out into open mandis – wholesale marketplaces. As I passed by these throbbing centres of humanity, big boned jolies laides were making a beeline to collect the stock of vegetables, fruits and flowers from the previous day that were unsold. These would be, through the course of the day, hawked at traffic signals with snotty kids saddled across their hips. Honking does nothing except reinforce the walkers’ belief that they are on the relatively freer path and encourage them to continue without budging. Then there are the function halls – some with shimmery clothes from last night’s merriments still draped over faux colonnades. The industrial corridor that follows emanated an eerie quiet – those last minutes before hundreds of red-eyed worker bees are defenestrated into the open world.

It is early morning, not yet 6 AM. Even then it takes the better part of an hour and around 60 km before you begin to get unhindered views of open fields. It is a hazy sun – the concrete dust from the never-ending construction in Noida and around still hangs in the air. I am taking the old NH 2 to Agra as I always found the Yamuna Expressway to be clinical and characterless. Not to mention all that concrete.

One and only

“There is only one Gulshan No.1,” the waiter said.

Riding for a couple of hours, I had passed by about a dozen ‘Gulshans’ along the highway and would pass a few more before reaching Mathura (200 km). This one was typical – open dining area flanking the highway, ancillary shops selling pickles and painkiller oils huddled together, a clique of truck drivers squatting around, sipping tea, quietly like a cabal.

“What is with Gulshan?” I asked. Clearly it was the most sought-after name along the road.

“It is synonymous with varieties of parathas, shudh desi ghee, fresh food…” he looked like he could go on.

One big attraction of the NH 2 is the many dhabas – roadside eateries – you find on both sides. Most of these joints have their own dairy farms which mean fresh paneer (cottage cheese) and thick lassi (a curd-based drink). The rest of the fare too is uniformly good – though the breakfast menu doesn’t stretch much beyond parathas. These parathas come with myriad stuffings – potato, onions, paneer and cauliflower being the most common.

‘Gulshan’ was one of the earliest dhabas along the NH 2 – way before the upstart Yamuna Expressway – and Gulshan No.1 claims to be it.

“Our name is registered and you will not find the ‘No.1’ anywhere else,” he informed me, chuffed.

Here a dharamshala

I love the NH 2 for gems like these literally, liberally, strewn by the roadside. Six years ago while working on my first travel book ‘Experience Agra and around on the road’ (Times Group Books), I wrote a series of posts on this blog about the blink-and-miss miniature heritages and off-piste wonders which would never make it to a travel or guidebook. For some, I did manage to muster reader traction that they found fleeting places in the book – more ‘good to know’ than ‘do not miss.’

This low lying sandstone building, still in good condition, was built in 1932 as a slab mentioned. The big, smooth entrance archway had three serrated arches to each side – the obvious purpose was air flow, mandatory for the arid region. On another slab further up, in intaglio, was recorded that this was a dharamshala – a rest house for travellers – built in the memory of one Ghasiram. In the open courtyard of the dharamshala were haystacks and some scabrous plants laid out to dry. Piddling wild dogs had left little piles of noisome shit like black bollards. 

While I missed several other mini heritages I discovered working on the book, this one was a real find. Keep an eye peeled as these stone marvels blend in perfectly with the surrounding barren fields.

There a kos minar

The old NH 2 connects New Delhi and West Bengal capital Kolkata via cities like Mathura, Agra, Kanpur, Allahabad, Varanasi, Dhanbad, Asansol and Bardhman covering a total of nearly 1500 km. It is currently known as NH 19. Though some stretches are in serious disrepair and hence traffic in lumbering contraflow, it continues to be an important part of India’s highway network.

These bulbous obelisks you find along the way – very few and quite far in between – are ancient milestones called kos minar. They were first made by Sher Shah Suri the Afghan ruler who invaded India in the 16^th century to mark distances from Agra to Ajmer, Lahore and Mandu in the Malwa region of Madhya Pradesh. ‘Kos’ is a measure of distance, approximately 3.2 km, ‘minar’ is tower. Akbar was also a great builder of kos minars and in 1575 (from which most of the kos minars we see today are from) probably because of the parlous nature of journeying in those days issued a decree that all kos minars have rest houses for travellers.

What is beyond my ken is that many of these kos minars – including some I saw while travelling to Ajmer with my partner – are pretty much along the highways that came much later. Didn’t it mean the mapping technology of those days was at par with what we have today?

Dr Sex

Earlier all of them were called ‘Dr Sex’ which ensured high word-of-mouth SEO. With people realising that sex was an activity and not exactly a person, today they go by names. Catchy and epigrammatic names. If you take a train to Agra from Delhi, names like Dr Sheikh, Dr Taj and Dr Sex himself appear on walls of every height and shape – across factory perimeter, godown and wheat field boundaries. Over the next few days, even if you shut your eyes momentarily, these names waft across in apparition font.

What these guys have collectively managed to accomplish is take away the bugaboo status of venereal disease from the country’s hinterlands. I always wanted to meet one of them and, even though I may not look the part, pretend to be tyro who got the clap from his first sexual encounter. I wanted to see and secretly film the interaction and the prognosis. I imagined them to hand out ochreous potions which were to be applied externally or ingested not through the mouth. They might even chidingly proscribe my proclivities.

I stopped my motorcycle next to a wall bearing the legend ‘Dr Sheikh’ and looked around sheepishly, half bent on meeting him if he happened to be in the vicinity. Waylaying a villager who passed by on a bicycle, I mustered ample trauma before inquiring the good doctor’s whereabouts.

“I have heard that his office is on Maulavi road in Mathura,” he told me.

“Is he good? Have you met him?” Natural questions. My life was on the line.

“No, but some of my friends have been to see him.”

“Were they cured?”

“Yes, totally.”

I heaved a sigh of relief and thanked him profusely.

It didn’t occur to me that I might be overdoing the part.