My initial forays into driving a car began with an Ambassador. This species may be unfamiliar to the young today; it was an XXL sized lady that worked like a horse. Most important, its front seat stretched out like a sofa and could accommodate much more than just the one next to the driver. In fact, my Ambassador on occasion accommodated even four people on the front seat. Not that this was the height of comfort. Anything but!
My TSR 5628 withstood the weirdest of situations: a waterless radiator (there would be some gurgles and hisses when the bonnet is opened), non-functioning silencer (the Formula 1 sound effect) and once, even a door that wouldn’t close (not the driver’s, luckily, the passenger just clung on for dear life).
Its forte was the Trance. A sample: There I was, heading a kilometre-long stretch of vehicles at a signal point. Green is every motorist’s favourite colour. I could go. Yet, even a 100 furious car horns could not disturb the state of peaceful stillness of my car. Drivers of buses, autorickshaws and other cars competed with one another to hurl expletives at the hapless woman inside the car that would not move.
Yes, my Ambassador was far from trouble-free. But still I loved it. It was full of memories of the scores of passengers it had transported. Many of them are in heaven now.
Much water has flowed under the bridge. The machine I drive today would snigger at its inelegant ancestor. Encased in shades of Royal Purple, it has been designed to ‘make driving a pleasure’. An automatic steering system (I remember often huffing and puffing as I made three point reverses with the Amby). Perfect air-conditioning. And certainly no need blow into the slow speed jet!
But, on the other hand…
Look at it. I enter its capacious entrails, fit in key… and a loud shriek emanates. This means: close the door, idiot. As though I was planning to drive with the door opened. I obey glumly, but there is more to come. Enforcing a seat belt rule on traffic jammed city roads when scores of non-helmeted motorcyclists go scot-free seems silly. Yet, whether you like it or not, I have to choose between obeying the law or tolerating the diabolic screeches that emanate every two minutes to complain about the unfastened seat-belt. My aural sensibilities offended, I slowly, and resentfully get myself tethered to the seat. (Is there no silent mode for cars?)
Nowadays, though, I have ingeniously learnt to cheat the seat belt alarm (and I hope no traffic policeman is reading this). I just leave the two ends of the seat belt fastened together permanently — myself excluded from this affectionate embrace. One point to me!
Finally, a word about the power windows. One of my greatest driving pleasures is to zoom down the breezy beach road, all windows down. It’s not so nice when I realise that I’ve got out of the car with some windows left open. Raising the glass is a small but an irksome job: to close the windows, I need to open the door and turn the key. At those moments, I fondly think of by old Ambassador with its rickety window winding-handles. Oh what adventures I have had with them… often the glass would not rise unless gently helped along, palms flat on the window.
I do wonder why I feel so attached to an old, troublesome crock when I have a slick and smooth marvel to take me everywhere. The answer is not far to seek. My Ambassador was like a petulant child and I was its mother, cajoling, chiding, chastising as I wished. With my latest vehicle, it is I who is the the child. A child caught stealing cookies. Blubbering and blustering while the school head brandishes a stick.
With the Ambassador, I called the shots. Today, in this battle between machine and man (or woman), I certainly don’t.
varalakshmi.anand@gmail.com
