A trucker

 We started calling him Fauji just because his father was in the army. We were classmates at the village school from class one to ten. With the coming of age he became a trucker and was more than happy to go trucking across the vast swathes of this country.

Classmates share a special bonhomie. One may become a minister and the other a beggar but when they meet there is a deep touch, still a space in each other’s heart. Maybe spending the best time of one’s life together, that’s childhood, leaves a permanent mark of affection. It rules out class bullies here because we remember them with clenched fists. In any case they are an exception only.

Me and Fauji were hardly in touch but whenever we came across he would be pretty honest and open about life in general. ‘I joined as a truck helper just to have good times with the women who would signal by the road at night. I said “hello” to at least 1,000 of them. So when the time came for marriage I got the HIV test done three times to confirm I didn’t carry AIDS. Why spoil someone’s life for the fun you had solely in your own capacity?’ he sounded so honest. Aww, the very same childhood buddy not ashamed of sharing things!

He was lucky to have escaped the virus and is now happily married. A little bit down the rung from his first love, that’s women, he is in love with drinking. To be followed by smoking beedies. Wine, women and smoking: a pretty heady cocktail. ‘Just three pegs at night when I drive. Not more than that! Never!’ he looks convincing about this control.

A couple of years back he suffered a heart attack. A stent was implanted and the doctor gave a stern warning about smoking and drinking.

One more thing, he can put a horse to shame in giving a full-jawed grin. He has been doing it since as long as I can remember. It’s a yellowed smile. Maybe some toothpaste brand can use him as a model declaring if you don’t use our product even your 24-carat gold smile will fall short of copper or even iron. In any case, it’s another cocktail of smiles and laughter. He looks fitter than when I saw him two years back when he suffered the attack. Life situations have changed but his trademark grin-cum-laughter has remained the same. He greets me with the same welcoming grin. Strangers might take it as sarcastic but those who know him have reasons to take it as a friendly grin only. He is definitely fitter than when I saw him the last time after the surgery.

‘Just couple of beedies less and one peg more is the mantra of good health,’ he declares. ‘And lots of happiness inside,’ I add to his health formula. ‘Yes happiness also, he grins and I am amazed by the sight of his perfectly symmetrical pristine white teeth. Maybe some toothpaste maker can use the wonderful white shade, unaffected by culinary times, of his teeth to claim superiority in marketing. I thought he is using some wonderful paste to wash them so spotlessly clean. ‘And smile also,’ I say as a compliment to his blazing white grin. ‘Yes, smile and with fake set of teeth it’s even better,’ his grin has taken a very high point now, a type of euphoric proliferation. Well, now I knew his 32-carat brand new blazing smile-grin or grin-smile is fuelled by a set of artificial teeth.

But this guy is far more open and honest than scores of so-called better presented men—socially—who put a varnish over the gray shades insides. It’s wonderful to enjoy the exchange of fresh and old nuggets with one’s school days pal.