<p>When it was fashionable to make fun of the cars made in India, one jibe that brought a derisive chuckle was, ‘in Indian cars, all parts make noise excepting the horn.’ <br /><br /></p>.<p>Notwithstanding such snooty mockery, the Ambassadors, Heralds and Fiats navigated the roads. A mechanic was always available round the corner, should they stall, which was often. The drivers who conjoined with such automobiles were veterans in coaxing and prodding the recalcitrant automobiles, their individual style of driving standing apart.<br /><br />My first driver Raju, the speed king, always shot out like a fire engine driver. Since the clanging bell or siren were not available, he almost stood on the accelerator blowing the horn. Several times, my heart got disentangled from its moorings, travelled up and got stuck in my mouth, which I kept tightly closed, or else? I felt relieved when he resigned to join the Madras Fire Service.<br /><br />The next one, Murthy, did not consider speed as essence, subscribing to Mahatma Gandhi’s dictum, ‘there is more to life than increasing its speed.’ Even when said I was in a terrible hurry, he would move like the proverbial tortoise that competed with the hare. He would wear a cloying Kannauj perfume, but only on the days he did not smell like a brewery. His mouth would be masticating a zarda paan, yet, he would not spit now and then. When he told me he was starting the business of hiring out top-open cars, for bridegrooms’ drive on the eve of wedding, I agreed thinking he would be a round peg in a round hole.<br /><br />Krishna, the next, an avuncular type, combined in his persona bits of explorers like Columbus, Magellan and Vasco da Gama. Blessed with wanderlust, he would not accept the algebraic definition: ‘a straight line is the shortest distance between two points.’ Thanks to his approach, I had gone through many lanes, cul-de-sacs, extensions to suburban colonies and such, while he lunged forward driven by the concept of consequentialism – the end justifying the means. <br /><br />He had many surprises for me. Once, the car stopped at a godforsaken intersection where only a thatched shop existed selling knickknacks to lorry drivers. He opened the bonnet, studied the complicated automobile conglomeration for a while and headed for the shop. He returned carrying a thingummy. Within minutes of his tinkering, the engine fired and the car started.<br /><br />What could that ramshackle shop store that lent a hand in fixing an old automobile? He hesitated to tell me, looking every which way sheepishly. Later on, when I compelled, he whispered, “a condom, sir.” Really! How did a latex or PU material used as a protective gear by men move the stalled car? He didn’t tell; but my club mate, Mani, a mini omniscient Google, made me wiser. It comes handy as a sealant in fixing the leaking fuel line. <br /></p>
<p>When it was fashionable to make fun of the cars made in India, one jibe that brought a derisive chuckle was, ‘in Indian cars, all parts make noise excepting the horn.’ <br /><br /></p>.<p>Notwithstanding such snooty mockery, the Ambassadors, Heralds and Fiats navigated the roads. A mechanic was always available round the corner, should they stall, which was often. The drivers who conjoined with such automobiles were veterans in coaxing and prodding the recalcitrant automobiles, their individual style of driving standing apart.<br /><br />My first driver Raju, the speed king, always shot out like a fire engine driver. Since the clanging bell or siren were not available, he almost stood on the accelerator blowing the horn. Several times, my heart got disentangled from its moorings, travelled up and got stuck in my mouth, which I kept tightly closed, or else? I felt relieved when he resigned to join the Madras Fire Service.<br /><br />The next one, Murthy, did not consider speed as essence, subscribing to Mahatma Gandhi’s dictum, ‘there is more to life than increasing its speed.’ Even when said I was in a terrible hurry, he would move like the proverbial tortoise that competed with the hare. He would wear a cloying Kannauj perfume, but only on the days he did not smell like a brewery. His mouth would be masticating a zarda paan, yet, he would not spit now and then. When he told me he was starting the business of hiring out top-open cars, for bridegrooms’ drive on the eve of wedding, I agreed thinking he would be a round peg in a round hole.<br /><br />Krishna, the next, an avuncular type, combined in his persona bits of explorers like Columbus, Magellan and Vasco da Gama. Blessed with wanderlust, he would not accept the algebraic definition: ‘a straight line is the shortest distance between two points.’ Thanks to his approach, I had gone through many lanes, cul-de-sacs, extensions to suburban colonies and such, while he lunged forward driven by the concept of consequentialism – the end justifying the means. <br /><br />He had many surprises for me. Once, the car stopped at a godforsaken intersection where only a thatched shop existed selling knickknacks to lorry drivers. He opened the bonnet, studied the complicated automobile conglomeration for a while and headed for the shop. He returned carrying a thingummy. Within minutes of his tinkering, the engine fired and the car started.<br /><br />What could that ramshackle shop store that lent a hand in fixing an old automobile? He hesitated to tell me, looking every which way sheepishly. Later on, when I compelled, he whispered, “a condom, sir.” Really! How did a latex or PU material used as a protective gear by men move the stalled car? He didn’t tell; but my club mate, Mani, a mini omniscient Google, made me wiser. It comes handy as a sealant in fixing the leaking fuel line. <br /></p>
