Dhaba on a highway

 

These are some photographs I have taken in eateries on highways (dhabas) during road-trips that I have been on with my husband across Central India. 

Here are a few lines from my soon to be published novel 'You're stuck with me for life' where Neeti and Ronit take a lunch-break while on a road-trip from Indore to Ranthambore:

Neeti:

“Look out for decent dhabas”, Ronit instructs me, “We need to stop somewhere for lunch.”

“I see one coming up on the left.” I inform him.

“Seems too basic”, he says, narrowing his eyes in disapproval before he continues, “There are no cars parked there. Try to spot one where a lot of cars are parked. Cars, not trucks, mind you.”

His comment brings back memories from a long time ago. Papa used to joke that some dhaba-walas probably park old cars in front of their establishments to convince people about the quality of their wares. It seems people are more likely to stop at an unknown eatery if they find it somewhat crowded. Of course, people of a similar social strata are the ones that count in this equation, hence Ronit’s comments about avoiding the dhabas with too many trucks. Finally, we settle on one that claims to be a 'Jain family restaurant'. There are over half a dozen cars parked in front of the single-storied structure. The wide entrance leads to a covered sitting area with plastic tables and chairs. There are a few khatiyas on one side with wooden boards serving as tables. To the left of the sitting area is a small shop with streams of brightly coloured packets of snacks hanging from one side. There is a small freshly painted yellow building on the right with T-O-I-L-E-T written in big, bold, blue letters. The place looks promising. I hope the toilet is clean.

Ronit:

I take off my sunglasses and place them on a red plastic table. The sitting area is quite airy and open. About half the seats in the eatery are taken. It doesn’t feel crowded. I look around for a waiter and wave my hand to grab his attention before I take a seat.

“Kya lenge sahab?” The middle-aged waiter asks, bending his right shoulder towards me, focusing his ears to receive instructions. The blue and white checkered gamcha on his left shoulder seems somewhat at odds with his well worn dark trousers and cream shirt.

“Ek dal tadka, ek jeera aloo, chaar roti.” I inform him. It’s best to keep the menu simple.

“Tandoori roti or chapati?” He asks, his eyes focused on the edge of the red table in front of me.

“Which one will I get faster?” I retort, wanting to know the implication of my choices.

“Everything is fast.” He says, looking towards me with pride and confidence. No doubt an eatery on the highway must often need to cater to customers in a rush.

“Get me tandoori rotis then.”, I decide, “No butter. And be quick with the food.”

Having received the requisite instructions the waiter walks to the large window of the open-ish kitchen right in front of me and has a chat with a stout man in a brown ganji who is stirring some concoction in a large black kadhai using a giant ladle. I wonder if some of the contents of that kadhai are going to end up on my table.