I don’t fancy cars much but I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of changing tyres – probably a hang-up from the old Hindi movies where a flat tyre acted as a catalyst for a romance. A typical scene pans out this way: the heroine’s car crawls to a halt in the middle of nowhere, the annoyed heroine stomps out and, to give her credit, identifies the problem after circling around the car making squeaking noises. A rear tyre is punctured.
‘Hmf!’ she squeals in dismay and pouts helplessly. As if on cue, the happy-go-lucky hero appears out of nowhere. The heroine looks at him as if he’s a bad smell and turns up her nose at his wisecracks and overtures. Now he resorts to what he knows best. He bursts into a zippy, catchy number as she sashays off in a huff. He prances after her in erratic circles like a hyper-active Mary’s lamb, dancing as though he has ants in his pants.
The song fades out; he sobers down and changes the tyre, practically with his bare hands, a hero’s prerogative. Annoyance gives way to admiration. She flashes a coy smile, he leaps into the driver’s seat, she gets in from the other side and they drive off to nowhere in particular. Love has blossomed and a flat tyre has set it into motion.
The front tyre of our car was punctured, a friend pointed out with glee. Sure enough, it was deflated and looked down in the dumps. ‘How?’ I was curious. ‘It was fine yesterday.’ ‘These things don’t give a two-week warning,’ my husband muttered, examining the tyre. ‘I’m going to change it.’
‘You are?’ I was most impressed. I didn’t know he had these skills. ‘Did you learn from old Hindi movies?’ There was silence. A phone call now took my attention but through the corner of my eye, I could see him go back and forth purposefully, carrying first a jack, then a wrench and finally the tool box. After a few such journeys he disappeared off my radar. I quickly ended the call and raced to the front room. The car manual was lying open on the floor and he was devouring it, frowning in concentration.
A little later I followed him outside. I found the car jacked up; obviously he had decided to consult the manual after that. Now he lugged the spare tyre to the scooter. He was sweating and whispered, ‘Air, air’. ‘Breathe through your mouth,’ I said, alarmed. ‘Nonsense, I’m going to check the stepney’s air pressure,’ he retorted in his normal voice and left, the tyre balanced precariously on the wobbling scooter.
He returned soon. ‘The tyre’s fine. Now bring some stones.’ Stones to change a tyre? Didn’t make sense but I obeyed and offered gravel. ‘Gravel? Are you crazy? Fetch some big stones.’
‘Aren't you getting under the car?’ I asked. ‘That’s what heroes generally do.’ ‘If you don’t get those stones, I’ll be knocked under all right,’ he snapped.
Now I got it. The stones were to prevent the car from rolling when the tyre was being changed. With great difficulty, I lugged two boulders to the car. He was exasperated. ‘Too big.’ He decided to choose the stones himself and I heard him mutter, ‘Self-help is the best help.’ He propped the stones under the tyres and painstakingly unscrewed the lug nuts that held the rogue tyre in place.
He waved aside my offers of assistance and after much grunting, panting and sweating, got the tyre off with a jerk, tumbling back in the process, legs cycling in the air. Now was the time for willing spouses to rally around. I sprang to lift the tyre and recoiled with a yowl of pain, kicking the nuts all over the place. How was I to know there are tiny wires on worn-out tyres that stand out like treacherous barbs? By now he had regained his balance and prepared to start work but some nuts were missing. I disappeared too.
What ought to have taken ten minutes took an hour and I returned when the last nut was in place. He looked relieved that his reputation as a changer of tyres remained intact. I discovered a tiny screw near the door. ‘Here’s a screw,’ I said. ‘From your head?’ he laughed. ‘Now bring the bags.’ He got in behind the wheel while I tripped over the flat tyre and leapt into the passenger seat, strewing the bags about. And we drove off to somewhere in particular – the vegetable market.
[khyrubutter@yahoo.com]
(A fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academic and author of the Butterfingers series)
