I have a basic drawback. I can’t drive. I have several other evolved drawbacks too but those are for another time. Not being able to drive is more of a will than a skill issue. Agreed that an Indian motor driving school is not the best option to gain the skill of wielding the wheel, yet that’s how most people learn. So I might not really have an excuse. I have been formally trained twice at these schools and informally by 3 others (household men). I’m still hopeless. I got my driver’s license by fluke.
Anyone going on the road after reading this need not worry much. In the 11 years that I have faithfully carried the license around in my wallet, I have flashed it variously for proving I am way above the legal drinking age, verifying a postal address I have vacated a decade back, showing people how weird I looked back then, and so on. Never for the purpose intended.
As a result, when I am not being driven, I resort to the ubiquitous auto rickshaws. The auto rickshaw experiences have been manifold. I’ve been horror struck, on the edge of the seat, blown away, thrown away, scolded, cheated and educated. Resignedly I struck a kinship with the lot.
Each auto rick driver had a unique offering for me. Some belted out classics from a generation long lost. These were about green leaves, clouds, lovers meeting in the rain, followed by paradise, and then getting separated by destiny's cruel hand. One particular could have been a singing sensation himself had the Indian Idol been in season. No exaggeration. He sang non-stop for an hour and 15, complete with hand movements, patting the thigh (his), eyes half closed to ecstasy (his) and horror (mine). A lot of the others I met have subjected me to philosophies ranging from dying spirituality among Indians, ill effects of capitalism, effects of black money on the Indian economy, rural versus urban life, and profiling politicians (in not very kind words) for the state the country is in.
Another day, another flying carpet. Before I can seat both cheeks, my morning drive companion gives a wild jerk, making me wildly clutch whatever there is to clutch. Despite not wanting to, I end up advising him to drive carefully, if not for his sake, for the sake of my life.
“Why are you so afraid of death madam? How will you go through life like this?” From the rearview mirror, I saw the left brow rise by an inch and half. The movement caused his left cheek and left mouth to also rise by an inch and half. I understood it to be his caustic smile. To drill the lesson of human mortality. To admonish those that feared death by auto. With that profundity, he gave a leftly jerk to the joystick and the next moment we were flying through a service lane, as other vehicles continued their bumper to bumper movement.
Another one another time, proclaimed a deep interest in the visual and verbal arts. When asked why he was overcharging me, he explained the additional earning was to compensate for battling stress, grime and traffic on Delhi roads. He was articulate. I was convinced.
Often times to escape being educated on life, death, art, economy and industry, I slip into a reverie. In my dreams, it’s just been a week at the new motor training school, and I have taken to driving like a fish to water or an auto rick to traffic. The wheel slides gently needing no more than occasional butterfly touches with my left hand. With my free right, I am doing my mascara. Followed by lipstick, blush, the works. All along negotiating steep turns, aggressive ambushes by rusty, DTC (Delhi Transport Corporation) buses and without a single mascara scratch on my cheeks. I’m being wistful.
After a good amount of time joy riding, and no real success at left handing the wheel and right handing the mascara, I again end up getting the services of a qualified driver. Hands folded in lap, ensconced in the middle of the backseat and devoid of philosophical quips.
I often miss the auto rick rides.
Anyone going on the road after reading this need not worry much. In the 11 years that I have faithfully carried the license around in my wallet, I have flashed it variously for proving I am way above the legal drinking age, verifying a postal address I have vacated a decade back, showing people how weird I looked back then, and so on. Never for the purpose intended.
As a result, when I am not being driven, I resort to the ubiquitous auto rickshaws. The auto rickshaw experiences have been manifold. I’ve been horror struck, on the edge of the seat, blown away, thrown away, scolded, cheated and educated. Resignedly I struck a kinship with the lot.
Each auto rick driver had a unique offering for me. Some belted out classics from a generation long lost. These were about green leaves, clouds, lovers meeting in the rain, followed by paradise, and then getting separated by destiny's cruel hand. One particular could have been a singing sensation himself had the Indian Idol been in season. No exaggeration. He sang non-stop for an hour and 15, complete with hand movements, patting the thigh (his), eyes half closed to ecstasy (his) and horror (mine). A lot of the others I met have subjected me to philosophies ranging from dying spirituality among Indians, ill effects of capitalism, effects of black money on the Indian economy, rural versus urban life, and profiling politicians (in not very kind words) for the state the country is in.
Another day, another flying carpet. Before I can seat both cheeks, my morning drive companion gives a wild jerk, making me wildly clutch whatever there is to clutch. Despite not wanting to, I end up advising him to drive carefully, if not for his sake, for the sake of my life.
“Why are you so afraid of death madam? How will you go through life like this?” From the rearview mirror, I saw the left brow rise by an inch and half. The movement caused his left cheek and left mouth to also rise by an inch and half. I understood it to be his caustic smile. To drill the lesson of human mortality. To admonish those that feared death by auto. With that profundity, he gave a leftly jerk to the joystick and the next moment we were flying through a service lane, as other vehicles continued their bumper to bumper movement.
Another one another time, proclaimed a deep interest in the visual and verbal arts. When asked why he was overcharging me, he explained the additional earning was to compensate for battling stress, grime and traffic on Delhi roads. He was articulate. I was convinced.
Often times to escape being educated on life, death, art, economy and industry, I slip into a reverie. In my dreams, it’s just been a week at the new motor training school, and I have taken to driving like a fish to water or an auto rick to traffic. The wheel slides gently needing no more than occasional butterfly touches with my left hand. With my free right, I am doing my mascara. Followed by lipstick, blush, the works. All along negotiating steep turns, aggressive ambushes by rusty, DTC (Delhi Transport Corporation) buses and without a single mascara scratch on my cheeks. I’m being wistful.
After a good amount of time joy riding, and no real success at left handing the wheel and right handing the mascara, I again end up getting the services of a qualified driver. Hands folded in lap, ensconced in the middle of the backseat and devoid of philosophical quips.
I often miss the auto rick rides.
