A caravan-home away from home

Rahul Bedi

Some 30 years ago I arrived in Delhi armed with the ubiquitous holdall, a steel trunk and a retrospective memory of times when rents in the city were within the reach of poorly paid apprentice journalists, of which I was one. Within a week, hope gave way to despair.

Advertised as one-room, independent sets most turned out to be nothing better than cramped garrets or converted garages with toilet and bathing facilities to be shared with the household help. PG accommodation, hostels, relatives and friends were tried out as alternatives, albeit unsuccessfully.

Dejected at a friend’s sprawling South Delhi bungalow, I was roundly abusing landlords, rents and inflation when my eye fell upon the cream and blue caravan parked in a corner of the front yard. 

The French Digue caravan-trailer, bought in a flush of opulence following a good harvest from a broke European tourist who had hauled it over from Lyons, was lying unused. The two-wheeled fibre glass, 12 by 6 ft trailer was an example of frugal space management containing a fold-back double bed, an adjoining single bunk, a spacious yet cleverly concealed cupboard and a collapsible writing table.

It also had a cubic-foot gas-operated refrigerator and a 10-bucket capacity washbasin, its tank located below with the water pumped up by an ingenious foot pedal. 

The penny dropped: the caravan would be my temporary home. But the question was of finding a camping site. The ones at Asaf Ali Road, opposite JP Hospital and at Kashmere Gate, adjacent to the ISBT, were checked out and the latter decided upon because of its verdant surroundings.

For Rs 8 as daily parking charges, the site offered a power connection and washroom facilities. Also at hand were a Chinese restaurant and a dhaba, open from early morning till late at night. The site also provided free of cost a rather scarce commodity: tall palm trees, manicured lawns and access to the contiguous sprawling Qudsia Rani ka Bagh, the 18th century ‘sin bin’ of an alluring dancing girl and her besotted lover, the lesser Mughal emperor Muhammad Shah.

With the caravan parked under a sprawling mulberry tree, the power connection rigged up and the order for morning tea placed with the dhaba mundu, I slept the first night soundly in my own home.

 I awoke to tea in bed, followed surprisingly by a refreshing bath and a robust breakfast. For the three months that I stayed there, my ‘home’ became an object of curiosity, and in time, display for even for the normally indifferent camping park officials.   

Miraculously, I was even able to manage on my meagre monthly stipend of Rs 500, receive visitors and even entertain, as soda, ice and oily pakoras and samosas were on tap from the dhaba, as were chairs and a Rexene sofa befitting a modest startup home. I despair to think that such a venture would be impossible for young starter-uppers to duplicate today.