Crossing The i's And Dotting The t's

(XXI) Seriously Underrated

Our train got delayed by a half hour and it screeched to a halt at six fifteen the next morning. Getting down on the platform, behind Radhika, I yawed loudly, barely keeping myself from falling face-first on the ground due to lack of sleep.

The Surat Railway Station was bustling with chaotic activity despite the early hour. Coolies in their standard red and white uniforms were bargaining in Gujarati, a language familiarly foreign to me, but the tone, business-like, was universal. Harried ticket collectors were rushing past passengers in order to report the arrival of our train. The platform was filled with all types of travellers--Gujarati and non-Gujarati entrepreneurs, Indian and non-Indian tourists, groups of families and friends, newlyweds and old couples--with almost everyone in between.

Rubbing my semi-swollen eyes, which were a result of me getting less than six hours of sleep in the past forty-eight hours, I addressed Karan, "is your uncle sending a car or would we have to book an Ola?"

Taking his suitcase from Vivaan as the former jumped out of the train, Karan turned towards me. "He's sending an open jeep for us to enjoy sightseeing. Wait, lemme call the driver."

We moved towards the exit, dragging our suitcases, while Karan phoned the driver. No sooner had he hung up, looking bewildered since it wasn't answered probably, that we were ambushed by a gang of the most energetically excited adults I'd seen in my life.

In the flash of a second, two large men sporting wide smiles took the luggage from Radhika and me, ushering us in the direction of a black jeep. In front of me, Karan was engulfed in a hug by a humungous Sikh man with a white turban on his head. Kian, Aryan and Vivaan stood motionless, their mouths gaping like three identical goldfishes. I'm sure my expression was also the same.

To everyone's surprised relief, Karan simply laughed and clapped the back of the man who had lifted him to his tippy toes (which was quite a feat, might I add, for Karan was a whopping six foot three) in a bone-crushing embrace. Once he was firmly back on the ground, the man turned towards our dumbfounded selves, flashed us a megawatt smile from beneath his beard, and folded his hands in a wordless namaste.

Mutely, the five of us imitated the gesture.

Karan laughed again and said, "guys, meet my chachaji, Jaspreet Singh. Chachu, these are my friends--Vivaan, Aryan, Ashiana, Kian and Radhika."

As if our thick trance was suddenly broken be a double-edged sword, we began uttering our nervous "hello"s and "namaste"s. Karan's uncle did the same, his voice low yet impressively deep.

After the mandatory greetings were exchanged, we climbed inside the open jeep, with us six at the back and our supervisor travelling shotgun beside the driver. His other driver followed behind us in another car with the luggage.

We soon found out, a series of pestering questions later, that giving cuddly bear-hugs was the only stereotypical sardaar-paaji trait that Jaspreet uncle possessed. Besides that, he was a lover of ghazals, really bad at dancing, hated modern-day upbeat Punjabi-rap songs and spoke fluent Gujarati along with Punjabi, Hindi and English. He was also the down-to-earth owner of a chain of five-star hotels spread across Southeast Asia, which was probably worth billions.

Inspiring right?

Once all our questions were answered and we had finally warmed up to Jaspreet uncle (or 'chachu' as he insisted we call him), I leaned back, absorbing the sights that the ancient city of Surat had to offer.

The early morning rays kissed the glass topped skyscrapers, lighting up Surat like the diamond city it was. As we drove over a network of magnificent flyovers, I thought back to the article I'd read about this city two days ago, describing it as a city of immigrants from all over the country. Sure enough, in our forty minute ride to the Maison hotel, I had spotted at least six ethnically diverse people going about their business.