Things I Learnt Riding Along: A Hitchhiker’s Journey on a Truck to Shillong

I stood at a tea stall near Khanapara, waiting for my second cup of tea to cool. I had come from Maharashtra not long ago and the place felt unfamiliar in a way that kept my attention sharp. The cool air, early traffic, and steady truck engines combined in a rhythm I was still learning to read. Guwahati is called the gateway to the northeast, and it truly is beautiful. 

While I watched the road, a Bolero pickup came in and parked a few feet away. The vehicle was covered with dust along the sides, ropes tied tight over the goods in the back that spoke of long hours on highways. The driver got out and stretched and ordered tea, with the ease of a man who knew the spot.

We exchanged a simple nod. A moment later, he asked me which direction I was headed. I said that I needed to get to Shillong and was working out the options. He sipped tea in a slow fashion before speaking, almost thinking out loud. "I'm going that way," he said. "Siliguri to Shillong run. Every week. If you want, you can ride along. Plenty of space for one more."

There was nothing dramatic in the offer, just a quiet, straightforward gesture from a man used to the company of the road. I agreed.

We finished our chai and hopped inside the pickup, the cabin was small but alive. Coloured fabric covers wrapped the seats, their hues sharp enough to slice through the grey morning. A string of beads and two tiny charms hung from the mirror, tapping gently whenever the vehicle moved. The dashboard held a few notes, a pen, and a small metal idol. And all of that seemed more like a habit than a decoration. 

Once we left Khanapara, the twisties came a lot sooner than I expected, the conversation settled into an easy pace. The driver talked as he drove, not to fill silence but because stories naturally surfaced from his experience on the road. He told me he made this trip every week- goods from Siliguri to Shillong, then vegetables and handicrafts on the way back. He said the route changed with the weather. The hills could slow you down, push you hard, or calm you depending on the day.

I listened, my thoughts guided by the movement of the pickup. The road curved first in a wide arch, then started to wind tighter as the terrain rose. Pine trees began to line its edges, some leaning in as if watching. The air turned cooler, sharper. I kept the window half-open, taking in the scent of damp earth mixed with diesel.

We stopped once at a small bend, where vendors sold roasted corn and tea from makeshift stalls. Down below us, the valley fell away into a sweep of green, in part shrouded by drifting clouds. The driver propped himself against the vehicle and looked out toward the ridgeline. "That stretch," he said, after a while, quietly, "always feels different. The wind changes there." He was driving like he knew the road like the back of his hand. 

When we hit the road again, I knew what he was talking about. The wind had a hint of pine in it, and it was lighter too, almost thinner. The pickup truck chugged along steadily through narrow turns. The driver remained intent, hands firm on the wheel, eyes scanning the road with a certain calm discipline out of habit. Me being someone who loves to drive, I could almost naturally predict where he would look next and what his next move would be. 

He spoke about night drives and sudden rains, about the small risks a driver learns to live with. None of it seemed too dramatic. It was just his life unfolding kilometer by kilometer. I could literally see the whole city of Shillong at a distance from the top as we approached. 

By the time Shillong materialized through the mist-once, twice, without fanfare- I felt the journey more than I saw the city. The ride had its own rhythm-slow climbs and careful turns, quiet stretches and wide-open valleys that yawned without warning.

He dropped me near the Police Bazar. No formalities, just a nod and a brief smile before he drove off to finish his deliveries. Feeling the cold wind on my face and hands, the hills had given me a clearer sense of how the hills shape the people who cross them every week.

Sometimes the most memorable journeys begin at ordinary sites, a tea stall, a quiet conversation, a humble offer from someone who has already traveled far.

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