Lost in the Pinds: Between Chaos and the 'Kaacha Raasta'

Returning to Amritsar, Punjab, felt surprisingly less stressful this time around. A quick flight—less than three hours from Sharjah Airport—and we found ourselves, for the second time this year, standing in awe of the Golden Temple. At 5 a.m., we joined the serene ritual of bathing in the holy water surrounding the Temple—a moment of peace and spirituality that words can barely capture. But what made this trip so special that it deserves a blog titled Lost in the Pinds: Between Chaos and the Kaacha Raasta.
Well, we took a road trip to Patiala to visit family with my Aunt and Uncle, and it turned out to be unexpectedly thrilling. For starters, I got to experience a rare, stress-free, and hilariously relaxed version of my aunt (who knew she had one?). Along the way, I saw giant chickens, rode on the back of a motorcycle driven by my ten-year-old cousin (yes, you read that right), and got barked at incessantly by a pack of their overly enthusiastic dogs.
And then came the drive back...

The Kisaan protesters still had the road blocked, which meant we had to take a detour through the pinds (villages) to get past Ambala. We left Patiala around 5 p.m., bracing ourselves for what should have been a four-hour journey but was now expected to take six hours thanks to the diversion. As if the detour wasn’t enough to keep me on edge, my family casually mentioned that snakes occasionally slither out from the depths of the farms and right into the homes—like the one we had just visited. Cue instant goosebumps. I was very glad they waited until after we’d left to drop that fun little nugget of information. By the time we reached the diversion route, the sun was setting—it was just before 6 p.m.—and that’s when the chaos really began. Hoping to avoid whatever "chaotic problems" awaited, I decided to take a nap, optimistically assuming I’d wake up with only an hour left of the journey. Spoiler alert: that did not happen.

The car wobbled unsteadily over the rocky roads of the pind we were navigating. My eyes fluttered open to complete darkness. The car was eerily silent. I glanced around but could barely see anything outside—the headlights lit up just enough to show that we were crawling along at around 10 mph. Behind me, my aunt woke up too, rubbing her eyes before asking my dad why we were still here—in Ambala, of all places. My dad sighed and explained that we’d spent the last 45 minutes trying various routes to get back onto the motorway, all while carefully weaving around the protest sites. Why were the roads blocked within the villages? We still didn’t know. Both the driver and my dad had their GPS apps running, trying to triangulate a working route. Between navigating and second-guessing the maps, they’d been stopping to ask farmers how to get to Jalandhar. At one point, we pulled over to speak to a shopkeeper standing on the roadside. Let’s just say this particular gentleman was... well, tipsy. Slurring slightly, he told us most routes were closed, but there was one that remained open. His advice? Head back toward the Gurdwara and take a turn at the corner. For some inexplicable and extremely annoying reason, our driver decided to take the turn before the one the man had suggested. We kept moving, encountering even more tipsy farmers along the way and asking them for directions. One of them leaned against our car window and slurred, “The road ahead is jammed, but this is your only way out. All the other exits are blocked.” As he spoke, three other farmers wandered over, joining the impromptu roadside conference. Soon, they were deep in discussion, gesturing animatedly and debating which route was best while we sat in the car like a group of confused potatoes, watching the scene unfold. After much back-and-forth, they finally reached a consensus: “Go straight,” they said. So, straight we went—hoping this wasn’t just tipsy optimism at play.

By this point, we’d realised it wasn’t just us dealing with the blocked exits. Dozens of other cars were also fumbling through the darkness, trying their luck on various routes. Headlights shone on us from all directions, creating a chaotic dance of light. But with our luck, we quickly noticed a troubling pattern: most of those headlights were coming towards us. You see, we were headed back to Punjab, but these cars were coming from—and heading to—Delhi. Slowly, a line of vehicles formed, and we wobbled unsteadily past them on the narrow road. Our driver rolled down his window to ask each passing car, “Is this the way to Jalandhar?” Every car told the same story, accompanied by equally exasperated passengers. We spotted everything: frustrated driver dads gripping the wheel like their lives depended on it, upset mothers glaring out the windows, and moody kids in the back, undoubtedly wondering why they’d even agreed to this trip. One driver finally replied, “You can go, but the whole way down is ‘Kaacha raasta.’ So, be careful.” My whole family hummed nervously in unison. For the confused, Kaacha raasta means an unstable, rocky path—not the kind of road you want to be navigating in the pitch dark. With every car we passed, we heard the same warning, as if the universe was conspiring to test our resolve.

The slow, bumpy drive came to an abrupt halt when we had to make a turn—and cars were coming straight toward us. The road was incredibly narrow, barely wide enough for one vehicle, let alone two streams of traffic. My dad got out, signaling the oncoming cars to stop so we, along with the other cars behind us, could inch forward and make the turn. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was downright chaotic. Once he got back in the car, I couldn’t resist asking, “Are there snakes here too?” Let’s just say my family wasn’t amused. Their collective response? A resounding “Shut up!” .
As we crept forward, we finally saw the source of the gridlock—a lorry had toppled over onto its side, blocking most of the road. The driver was unloading stock onto a tractor, but it still didn’t explain why all the exits had been shut in the first place. Frustration levels peaked as my dad got out of the car again, attempting to manage the chaotic oncoming traffic. Cars were repeatedly getting stuck on a small but maddeningly steep hill, causing a ripple effect of delays. Eventually, enough space was made for us to move. But then, our driver decided he didn’t want to risk it. “The car might get stuck or hit,” he muttered, refusing to budge. This didn’t sit well with anyone. Three cars squeezed past us, with the third shouting, “Just stay here then, you idiot!” as they maneuvered around. My mum, clearly fed up, let loose a few choice words herself. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, our driver reluctantly moved forward.

My dad got back in the car, and my mum and aunt were praying for our safety like we were on the brink of disaster. My uncle was trying to keep the mood light, telling them, “Don’t stress.” Then there was me—smiling like a total moron, just happy to be inside the car and not out in the dark with the snakes. As we moved forward, inching past the other cars, we started asking how bad the Kaacha Raasta really was. Eventually, one stressed-out driver replied, “Be careful, it gets worse. You’re so screwed.” We all burst out laughing. There’s something about the tone of Punjabis stressing out that’s so over-the-top it’s hard not to find it hilarious. As we continued, we finally got to the heart of the chaos. One of the drivers heading back to Delhi told us what had really happened. Apparently, a speeding car had run over two kids and fled the scene, causing the farmers to block every possible exit except for the rocky path we had just navigated. That explained the gridlock.

The road was still bumpy, and my mum and aunt were continuing their prayers, probably hoping for divine intervention at this point. As we moved forward, I spotted a man walking in the distance with a dim torch, trekking across the farm in the pitch-black night. I couldn’t help but ask, “Isn’t he scared of the snakes?” My family immediately shot me down. They were so done with me by now. We pressed on, and the road began to curve upward slightly. That’s when I realised the “worse” everyone had been warning us about was actually a short but terrifyingly unstable bridge. My mum’s voice trembled,
“Oh My God, we’re done. Our car is gonna topple into the river!” The urge to ask if there were snakes in the river was so tempting, but I wisely kept quiet. I could already hear one of the adults gearing up to slap me, so I just smiled like a complete muppet, pretending we were on some kind of theme park ride. I turned to my aunt, who—surprisingly—started laughing at my unrestrained excitement.

Slow and steady over the bridge. Bump, bump, bump... BOOM. Suddenly, the car tilted and dropped, and my aunt and I both shouted “Weeee!” at the same time, laughing like we were on some wild amusement park ride. Meanwhile, my mum screamed in fear, remembering her own mother’s warnings. “Mummy!” I turned to my mum and, for the third time, asked, “Should I hold your hand?” She was gripping the roof of the car for dear life, clearly terrified.
“No, be quiet,” she snapped, before unleashing another scream. I glanced back at my aunt, who was laughing along with me. All of this happened in the span of about ten seconds, but somehow—somehow—we made it out alive.

Within about half an hour, we were back on the main road. The chaos subsided, and the emotions slowly calmed down. My adrenaline crash hit hard as we finally made our way to Amritsar. My dad, ever the prankster, shared a funny tidbit with us. While guiding the cars out of the mess, the drivers heading toward Delhi kept asking how long it would take to reach the motorway. With a wicked grin, my dad would reply, “About two hours,” watching their faces go pale.
To be honest, given the traffic and darkness it would probably end up taking them that long anyway.