No matter when or where or how I now travel, I find that I am always trying to replicate - but am only seldom successful - the pleasures I first encountered on road-trips while growing up in India. Not coincidentally, each of those pleasures was either inexpensive or did not cost anything at all. It was the simplicity, the directness, the clarity of the experience that produced the unadulterated joy.

Our home was on the Gangetic Plains. Which meant that the summers were hot - white, searing hot. Our family was middle-class and could therefore afford the annual summer exodus to the "hill-stations". Not unlike the way we in Canada flee in the winter in search of the sun, in India we fled the sun and headed for the cooler mountaintops.

Of course, the price you had to pay for the relief awaiting you hundreds of miles away, was the purgatory of the drive which would take anywhere between two and four days, depending on which resort you were heading for.

We would start in the wee hours of the morning, while it was still cool, since the cars then did not have air-conditioning. By eleven o'clock, we'd be exhausted; the sun above, still short of its zenith, would've already turned the auto into an oven. Thewindows brought in only hot air. It instantly soaked up every trace of moisture we carried.

The vote would be unanimous: we wanted to stop at the very next "dhaaba".

A dhaaba is India's equivalent of the truck-stop, but has no equal anywhere in the world. It is an oasis just off the roadway: a cluster of thick trees, with a couple of large, thatched huts standing in the shade. A few rickety tables and chairs scattered around; but the preferred furniture for the road-weary was always the "chaarpai" - literally, the four-legged piece: a cot the size of a single bed, consisting of a simple frame strung together with a soft rope. No sheets, no pillows.

A dhaaba is run by truck-drivers. When a driver on the road has been at it for a long stretch and needs a break, he offers to be the cook at the dhaaba - or the helper. The cook takes over the driving and disappears into the sunset. Thus, it is a truck-stop run by truck-drivers. Mostly, it is a non-profit set-up. It pays for those who work there, but only minimally, since they're merely taking a break.

(More recently, however, the idea has deteriorated in some places into a more organized business.)

The food is basic, rustic - and wonderfully sumptuous! My favourite was the "paraantha" - a roti-like bread, stuffed with mashed potatoes (or any one of a number of vegetables), and topped with a generous chunk of butter. Accompanied by a rich glass of "lassi", a yogurt based sweet beverage, served in a "Punjabi" glass. Which was the slang for an over-sized, doubly-tall steel tumbler, named thus because - according to popular lore - it took a lot to quench the thirst of the burly Sikh from the Punjab.

The adults preferred the famous "makki-di-roti" and "saag" combination - corn bread and spinach - and went into ecstatic oohs-and-aahs while we rolled our eyes in bewilderment. Fuss over spinach?

Having stuffed ourselves into inaction - adults and children - we claimed a chaarpai each, dragged it well into the shade, and slid into a siesta.

The sun's disappearance behind the trees around five in the afternoon would drop the temperature noticeably enough to wake us up. Time to get back on the road.

The next thing we looked out for was a brook or spring close to the road. It wouldn't be hard to spot. Cattle or goats would invariably be in the vicinity. It was a time before the world invented pollution as a life-style. The water, coming afresh from the lower hills of the Himalayas, which were still out-of-sight, would be crystal clear and, touched by the evening air, cool and invigorating. We'd find a spot behind some trees, out-of-sight of the road-traffic, strip down to the bare essentials, and wade into the spring. It was never more than waist-deep, never big enough to form a pool. Which meant more of an adventure for the kids. And the temperature would be perfect.

Back in the car, cool and alive again, we'd lower the windows to welcome the evening breeze as we headed once again towards the hills. We passed through villages. And by rice-fields. Right by bullock-carts and tractors and the occasional camel or elephant. Food would be passed around; fights would break out; parental intervention was called upon; allegations and counter-allegations would fly. Until a general air of mayhem had been established and it became urgent that we find a reason to stop again.

"Look!" someone yells and points straight ahead. We've just left behind a village. A bright glow fills a portion of the darkening sky. A Ferris wheel is silhouetted by the glow. As we come closer, we announce to each other with a chorused yelp that it's a fair! A village fair!

A huge area in the fields has been cleared to accommodate the festivities. A fence cordons it off from the road and from a handful of vehicles parked next to it. We stream out of the car. Our thrill is matched by the look of surprise sported by the local villagers: they are not used to city-dwellers participating in their events.

The merry-go-round, the Ferris wheel, the magic show, the coconut shy, they're all there, but with one noticeable difference. They're from an era long gone. The rides are operated with human power, not electricity. The contraptions appear to be a century old. The Ferris wheel, for example, has twelve baskets and they rise only high enough to give you a full view of the few acres covered by the fair.

And the mini-zoo. The main attraction consists of a pair of tiger cubs. My father strikes up a conversation with the keeper. Tells him jokingly that the cubs are my cousins. He explains to the bewildered fellow that my name is "Sher", which he knows means tiger/lion. As does "Singh". "Really?" muses the keeper. One things leads to another, and the next thing I know he's lifted me over the fence and plunked me next to the cubs. I get to hold them in my arms. They clamber all over me. My sisters scream in envy. They attempt to jump over the fence. I am in heaven ...

Ever since, that day and similar days during other trips have become the standard for what I want out of my travels. Their memory serves as a touchstone as to whether or not I want to stop somewhere, or do something, even though the itinerary says nothing about it. It helps separate the dross from the truly treasured moments I have gleaned and garnered from around the world.