Her driving licence

“It was my DL. No second thoughts on that.”

She took me by surprise. Why give credit to me for her driving licence? After all, it was she who had coolly ignored my caustic comments on the initial glitches. She had boldly faced a sceptical RTO official during her driving test. Having secured the freedom to be on her own, she had absolved me of a lot of responsibilities that my other less courageous friends remained burdened with. Her DL was the last thing on my mind when I had made my apparently innocuous query.

Our 50th wedding anniversary was fast approaching. Usually, I just dump all decision-making on her for buying gifts for anyone. She does the shopping that she enjoys so much while I celebrate dodging such a joyless chore. But now, in the evening of our lives, with children too busy with their own hectic schedules and friends too tired to provide company, I often join her on such ventures. It irritates her when she catches me mechanically approving her choice without giving any serious thought. But overall, it makes her happy.

Two occasions give me the shivers — her birthday and our marriage anniversary. With limited funds to indulge in fancy gifts, a nice bouquet and a candle lit dinner seemed to suffice in the days gone by. Over the years, as my pockets became deeper, I experimented with expensive jewellery and apparel. But my choice usually appalled rather than appealed to her. She would heartily thank me for my gifts but after a seemingly decent interval of a couple of days she would quietly exchange the item for something of her choice.

No wonder the approaching 50th anniversary baffled me. Trying to evoke a hint, I had asked her quite innocuously: “What do you think was the most precious gift I ever gave you.” She could have knocked me down with a feather as she promptly said: “My DL.”

“But you earned it. Why give me the credit?” She didn’t hesitate. “Because you let me use it. It didn’t remain a medallion for display. Many of my friends couldn’t use their DL due to their hubbies’ fear of accidents. You trusted me and never dissuaded me from driving even in congested bazaars. You taught me how to change a flat tyre.

When posted to Wellington, you admitted you too were inexperienced in hill driving and let me drive on those steep slopes come rain or fog. When I banged your beloved Fiat Padmini you said it could have happened to anyone. Actually, you gave me not only my DL. You gave me freedom, you gave me wings, you gave me courage and you gave me equality in every manner.”

I laughed it off. “No big shake. All women drive these days.” “But not 50 years back. You let me drive when people stared at women driving alone.”

I teased her, “Would you like a Private Pilot’s Licence now?” Her eyes shone, “Aren’t I too old?”