<p>With a quivering heart, I entered a busy road. This popular marketplace in Bengaluru is invariably filled with hawkers, pedestrians, and vehicles irrespective of festive season or occasion. I had frequented this locality many times before, sometimes on a two-wheeler with my mom as a pillion, while other times as a pedestrian.</p>.<p>Not even once was I affected by the pushy roadside vendors or traffic. This time, however, I was behind the wheel, driving my father’s car. As an amateur driver who had just been licensed to drive, my confidence level to navigate this busy road was abysmally low. Being alone in the car and having no one to encourage me to move forward, my legs froze on the brakes as soon as I entered this crowded street.</p>.<p>With limited communication between my brain and limbs, I kept staring at the road, wondering about my next move. Soon, I was showered with the choicest of words from pedestrians and hawkers alike while the car<br>and two-wheeler drivers behind kept saying one thing in unison, “Yaar ri nimmage licence kottidu (who gave you the licence)?’</p>.<p>With a sheepish smile and sweaty palms, I managed to shift my legs from the brake to the accelerator, but the speed was such that pedestrians and cyclists were overtaking me. I was the laughingstock for bystanders while the people in the vehicles cursed their fate and yours truly.</p>.<p>As I continued to drive at a snail’s pace, I soon realised that my fear had taken full control of my judgement and driving skills. I could hear the faint sounds of a scratch on the left side of the car as I brushed against a hawker’s cart. Unmindful of his profanities, I drove ahead only to hear a thud on the right side as I hit a stationary two-wheeler. Thankfully, the owner was nowhere in sight. However, the rearview mirror reflected the trail of destruction I had left behind. Fruits and vegetables had tumbled from the cart, and pedestrians were scuttling for a safe place, while an irate samosa vendor was picking up his labour of love.</p>.<p class="bodytext">People were waving their hands in frustration and walking towards my car. As luck would have it, a traffic police officer signalled me to halt the car. Soaked in sweat and anxiety swamping my mind, I avoided eye contact <br />with the policeman. Instead, I just stretched out my hands as the handcuffs hung in midair. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my left shoulder, shaking me vigorously. “Wake up, Rohini, you are sweating in the December cold. Is it the car-driving dream again?”</p>
<p>With a quivering heart, I entered a busy road. This popular marketplace in Bengaluru is invariably filled with hawkers, pedestrians, and vehicles irrespective of festive season or occasion. I had frequented this locality many times before, sometimes on a two-wheeler with my mom as a pillion, while other times as a pedestrian.</p>.<p>Not even once was I affected by the pushy roadside vendors or traffic. This time, however, I was behind the wheel, driving my father’s car. As an amateur driver who had just been licensed to drive, my confidence level to navigate this busy road was abysmally low. Being alone in the car and having no one to encourage me to move forward, my legs froze on the brakes as soon as I entered this crowded street.</p>.<p>With limited communication between my brain and limbs, I kept staring at the road, wondering about my next move. Soon, I was showered with the choicest of words from pedestrians and hawkers alike while the car<br>and two-wheeler drivers behind kept saying one thing in unison, “Yaar ri nimmage licence kottidu (who gave you the licence)?’</p>.<p>With a sheepish smile and sweaty palms, I managed to shift my legs from the brake to the accelerator, but the speed was such that pedestrians and cyclists were overtaking me. I was the laughingstock for bystanders while the people in the vehicles cursed their fate and yours truly.</p>.<p>As I continued to drive at a snail’s pace, I soon realised that my fear had taken full control of my judgement and driving skills. I could hear the faint sounds of a scratch on the left side of the car as I brushed against a hawker’s cart. Unmindful of his profanities, I drove ahead only to hear a thud on the right side as I hit a stationary two-wheeler. Thankfully, the owner was nowhere in sight. However, the rearview mirror reflected the trail of destruction I had left behind. Fruits and vegetables had tumbled from the cart, and pedestrians were scuttling for a safe place, while an irate samosa vendor was picking up his labour of love.</p>.<p class="bodytext">People were waving their hands in frustration and walking towards my car. As luck would have it, a traffic police officer signalled me to halt the car. Soaked in sweat and anxiety swamping my mind, I avoided eye contact <br />with the policeman. Instead, I just stretched out my hands as the handcuffs hung in midair. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my left shoulder, shaking me vigorously. “Wake up, Rohini, you are sweating in the December cold. Is it the car-driving dream again?”</p>
