Gharhuka may just bite the bullet!

THE announcement of the first bullet train on the Mumbai-Ahmedabad track has been followed by a similar announcement of the second such train on the Amritsar-Delhi track. So far, the announcements are nothing more than an illusion. During the planning and announcement period, I have witnessed the mushrooming of gharhukas in various parts of Punjab after their ‘hibernation’. The three- wheelers are giving a nightmare to mini buses and road transport in general. Gharhukas, peter rehra, Dhindsa and maruta are the common names of this dreadful vehicle — locally fabricated and extensively used for carrying schoolchildren, passengers and goods. They are neither manufactured by an automobile company nor tested for road safety mechanism. Also, no tax is levied on them. This ‘automobile’ was first seen in the Sangrur-Bathinda areas in the late 1970s and it was a coincidence that it was derisively called Dhindsa, after the then  young transport minister, who had nothing to do with it, except to order the halting of its operations. However, within three-four years, it got so popular that it was seen running on all state and national highways, competing even with commercial vehicles! 

The menace grew fast, and in the early 1990s, it drew the attention of the Punjab and Haryana High Court which ordered that they be impounded and dismantled. It caused some fear in the minds of the owners as the authorities became active as the progress of dismantling was being monitored. 

Recently, I visited Amritsar; there is hardly any road where these vehicles do not ply. I was reminded of the time when I was Secretary, Regional Transport Authority, in 1993. I was performing traffic check on the Zeera-Makhu road. In those days, traffic check meant stopping over 50 per cent vehicles till the checking was over, making the roads look deserted. At some distance from the main road, I spotted a gharhuka ferrying passengers. My traffic staff was also alert, like they had seen a lion! 

When my official car turned towards its direction, the gharhuka accelerated its speed. For about 5 km we chased it, but could not narrow down the distance, indicating that it could run as fast as a car. Realising that it would be disgraceful if we were unable to stop it, I asked my gunman to fire in the air. He fired three rounds without any effect on the driver. After a chase of about 15 km, it stopped near a sugarcane field, the driver got down and turned it upside down before fleeing. The traffic staff very efficiently dismantled it. However, the menace has persisted for the past about four decades. 

A good thing the government could do is to organise an inter-state gharhuka championship instead of Formula 1, considering the enhanced number of voters involved in the unlawful business. Maybe some day — like the tonga outruns a bus in the film Naya Daur — our gharhukas will overtake the bullet trains.