Drama queen

A friend of mine calls me a drama queen and knows that I revel in it. It is so much fun making a scene about a chipped fingernail or a wrongly spelled word that I try and milk situations of this ilk to the max, if you know what I mean through all the fluffy verbiage.

Yesterday, however, drama took a nasty turn. For some time now I have been deeply unhappy with my driver, the one who seemed to be okay when he started out driving me into work every day. He drove on the clutch, shredded the leather of the steering wheel, slammed the brakes unmercifully and did his best to annoy, aggravate and irritate me in every way possible, mainly by mauling our car around and then complaining sotto voce about it. I was giving him one more chance…each time, since he had a wife and three children to look after on his fairly small salary. And then, finally, he managed to drop that crucial last straw on the load on my mind that was him and his nakhras – the only word that covers his very odd temperament.

It began badly, yesterday. The driver arrived earlier than his usual time, demanding the keys to the car, since he had to buy the toll-bridge pass that would take us over the creek to the island city twice a day. Why, I wanted to know, did he need the car for that? Especially since all this while he had done the needful without? His tone was distinctly combative, when he retorted that since he was not being given auto-rickshaw fare to and fro, he would have to drive there. Which, after a month of this kind of insolence and frankly dreadful driving from him, pushed that button in my mind and made me blow up. Being aware that it was rather unwise to start the altercation first thing in the morning, I fled to my bathroom, leaving my father to handle it. When I emerged, the car was back but the driver’s days were definitely numbered, counting down to when I found a new one.

So, with my patience pasted on my anger and my irritation levels held firmly in a straitjacket, I started out to work. The driver managed to jerk my chain a few times, but I kept my cool, refusing to get visibly affected, talking to various people on my much-maligned mobile phone instead. But by the evening I was ready to let go, to lose my temper in good family style…and I did. The driver heaved sighs and pulled faces, as he stopped to let me in at the porch of the office block. When I asked him to move the seat in front of me forward, so my knees could fit without being compressed, he shoved so hard that the cushion hit the dashboard. He was still given a chance, when I asked him what was bothering him.

It was then that everything hit the fan – or would have, if there had been a fan to hit. At his insolence and aggression, I blew my fuse and demanded to know just who he thought he was, since all he really did was drive me from home to work and back, with few stops, if any, with few other jobs to be done by him, if ever any at all. He replied, in a louder than was required voice, that he was a driver not a servant and that I could sack him if I wanted. It was what I had wanted for a while. He was asked to pull over and get out. Before he realised what I was doing, I had driven off. My hands were steady, my mind was bathed in brilliant red and I was so furious I was cold. By the time I drove into the gate, the ice had set in and I was able to ask the man who had got me the driver what in heaven’s name had happened, heard him out and then told him never to let the man into the building ever again. When I walked into our apartment, the anger and hurt poured out in a veritable flood, only partly soothed by the kitten and her purring, my father and his murmuring and text messages from various friends asking if I was okay and safe.

Today I drove myself into work, at peace with even the horrendous traffic. I am told a new driver will be coming to see me tomorrow morning. I just hope he is a better experience than the old one.