Gas trouble

There is a petrol strike on in Mumbai, the city of many dreams, a few nightmares and the average day. Which makes these days less nightmarish, especially when commuting to work is concerned. Ever since my father won our long-standing battle and I drive to work in mercifully air-conditioned comfort, I have blessed him for his infinite wisdom, but cursed a whole lot of other people, from my own chauffeur to the zillions of taxi drivers who get in our way to the hundreds of other hurdles that make the ride of about 40 minutes over an hour long. Yesterday was thusly, since people don’t seem to have caught on to the idea that perhaps a car needs something called petrol to make it go and if they had filled up like sensible people (my father, for one) did on the weekend, they would be home and not as dry in the tank as they probably were today, when there was far less traffic and so more driving comfort!

(Whew! Having got that vastly over-extended sentence off my mind, we can now progress.)

I first started driving when I was about 13, during a family crisis in the smallish city that was once Pune, about two or three hours away from Mumbai via the new expressway. It was the first time I was behind the wheel by myself (not on a parental lap) with the engine on and I was terrified, but had the bravado of the new teenager who had angsts coming out of her jeans pockets to carry me through. So I revved up and jerked to a rather ignominious halt as my foot lifted right off the clutch too soon. My father smiled patiently, told me all over again what the process was and we tried again. This time, I took a couple of hops and then stalled. It felt very Jessica Rabbit, with none of the seduction or charm, just a Bugs Bunny-ish version of the vamp.

The driving lesson progressed, with minor mishaps, and soon I was older, my father was wiser and we both got along better in the front of the car. On my first foray out of the driving lesson area of Mumbai and on to the main roads, I managed to get on the wrong side of the bus without mowing down any of the passengers getting on and off and, to my eternal shame and horror, just avoided running over a school-mate as he crossed the road at the same time I did, he on foot, me with one foot down a little too hard on the wrong pedal. Gradually, it came to driving test time and I passed without too much trouble, except that I was advised not to drive so fast and to make sure I had someone in the car with me until I accomplished that.

Today, our family has one small rule: Let the woman drive, or else she will be carsick, especially on long and winding roads. Or she will sit next to you and squeak if you come anywhere near any other vehicle, even within six feet of it. Or else, with steely determination, she will grit her teeth, clench her fists and generally be so stoic that it makes you want to give her the keys, the wheel and the car itself. If it had petrol in it, that is!