The photograph was dated July 19, 2016. Until now, I hadn’t paid attention to either the date or the car in the picture. In fact, for years afterwards, I didn’t think much about the date at all. I hadn’t picked up my car from the showroom because I wasn’t confident in my driving skills. I had chosen a small, gleaming red coloured car— one of the older models that hadn’t been sold. It stood out, brave and shining, among the newer models that looked so sleek and proud. It seemed like the best option for a novice driver; it suited my budget and was capable of handling difficult drives and narrow parking spaces.
The date of purchase coincided with the birthdate of the eminent astronomer and astrophysicist Dr Jayant Narlikar, whom we lost recently. I was recalling the memories of Dr Jayant Narlikar, but the photograph sent me down the memory lane.
When I completed my Ph.D., my family and extended family expressed great appreciation. Everyone had kind words to share, but my mother-in-law gifted me some money and said, “Buy some gold or elegant sarees.” I replied that I had been yearning to buy a car, and she encouraged me, saying, “Buy whatever you want.” This gave me a sense of freedom in my thoughts, and I decided to pool my savings on a small red car. I believed smaller cars were more comfortable, but later realised that larger cars were easier to drive.
Did I ever drive the red car? I didn’t. Instead, it sat parked in a paid parking lot every day. We had it cleaned by a car cleaner who visited our building. I would travel by bus to my workplace, which was twenty kilometres away, hoping that I would eventually drive the red car. I had a chauffeur named Baban who would drive me home in the afternoons. He had driven me to the university several times while I was studying and knew that I wanted to drive the red car. He would often ask, “Madam, do you drive the red car?” I would reply, “Not yet, but I will drive it during the weekend.”What is the speed limit for the car? I would reply tiredly, “I don’t know, I’d be happy to drive at 15–20 kilometres per hour.” He would then glance at the red car and walk away.
I never really drove the car. Whenever I wanted to, my reluctance would only allow me to drive just a kilometre or so. I often asked my son to drive it to keep the red car moving. He quickly understood how to handle it. Knowing me well, my husband had suggested, “It’s better to drive an automatic; you won’t hesitate to drive it.”
It felt humiliating, especially after I had driven our old manual car to the university. I reassured myself, saying I was happy it was a manual and that I would drive it soon.
The long commute and my poor health led me to resign from my job at the end of the academic year. Baban thought it was my vacation. I travelled a few times later to complete a course I was pursuing there and told him, “I have stopped working here.”
He was astonished and said, “But this institute is good; I’m here to drop you home.” I responded, “I want to work at a college closer to home.” Baban was distraught. “This college is excellent and not very far; how can you leave it?” I explained, “It’s far from home and it tires me.”
Working closer to home also meant I wouldn’t need his services, which was something Baban didn’t want to accept. He knew that I would eventually start driving the red car. I began teaching at a nearby college, and during that time, the roads were being redone. I had no choice but to take the red car. Although it was new, its gears never shifted smoothly. I started driving it, but I didn’t enjoy it or feel happy behind the wheel. I remembered my scooter lying in the parking lot; it was a new Yamaha Ray ZR, and it performed excellently. However, I feared the possibility of falling while riding it on the uneven roads, so I decided that the red car would suffice.
Days passed, and I gradually grew more confident. One day, as I was leaving home, I heard my phone ringing. In an attempt to answer it, my right foot accidentally pressed the accelerator, causing the car to veer toward the footpath. I dropped the phone and panicked, thinking I would crash through the boundary wall. Thankfully, a young palm tree came to my rescue. I hit it forcefully, which gave me just enough time to halt the car.
The palm tree was severed into two halves; the rooted part was fine, but it was no less than killing a person. The guard came running and helped me calm down, but I kept looking at the plant. The gardener, a young man, said he would graft and stitch the parts together. I drove back. The next day, I saw the palm tree with a bandage to heal the parts. The plant has grown well, but I never forgot my lesson.
I did not stop driving the car. My driving was restricted to my college and back home; during these times, I had many adventures. Once while returning home, the car stopped suddenly, and there was beeping from everywhere. My neighbour halted her scooter to one side and jumped in to help me. Each of these experiences has grown me in many ways. I began feeling the vehicle, I knew how to adjust the space, and park it well.
As I improved my parking skills, there was always someone available to help me when I needed assistance. During one summer vacation, I didn’t drive the car or even start it. That summer, it rained heavily, and a couple of rats began to take residence in the engine compartment. When I finally started driving the car again, I couldn’t figure out why it smelled so bad. My husband and our cleaner went through the car thoroughly, but the persistent smell of the rats kept me puzzled.
Each day, as I drove, I would mentally prepare myself for the possibility of a rat jumping out from the dashboard, and I could smell something unpleasant coming from the air conditioner. I often rehearsed how I would react if a rat did happen to jump out, praying to God that it wouldn’t happen. One day, I brought the car home, and my husband rechecked it. This time, we discovered baby rats hiding under the flap covering the spare tire.
He arranged for our cleaner to do a deep cleaning of the car, and then we took it to the showroom. They cleaned it thoroughly, but the smell still lingered. The next time I visited the showroom, I inquired about selling the red car. Everyone was eager to buy it since it was practically new and had hardly been used.
Feeling exhausted when we got home, the security guard suggested, “Why don’t you place a few tobacco pouches in the bonnet and other spots? Rats dislike the smell.” I replied, “I’ve never heard of this remedy.” We decided to try it, and thankfully, the rat issue subsided.
The college where I worked began expanding its facilities and course offerings. As the number of students increased, the building underwent renovations, which created chaos in the parking area. During the scorching summer, I sought a cooler spot and discovered one conveniently located between two buildings. However, when I approached the lane, I found it blocked by a small lorry on one side and numerous scooters on the other, leaving only a narrow gap for vehicles to pass.
The guard noticed my predicament and rushed over to direct me on how to navigate through the tight space. He held his chest in disbelief as I managed to cross the area unscathed. It was surprising to him, as he had never believed I could drive. The guard then exclaimed, “Ma’am, you have mastered the art of driving!”
I have been driving for some time, but it was a confidence boost to hear that. He gestured with his hands to illustrate how I had manoeuvred through the narrow path, and I smiled, thanking him as it felt like a recognition of my skills.
After that experience, I grew more confident and began to tackle the challenge of parking in the smallest of spaces. I still encountered failures at times; those moments were where I learned and improved.
These days, my family keeps suggesting that I exchange my red car for a new one. I know I may need to do it someday, but whenever I look at the red car, I feel compelled to give it a pat and say, “Whatever happens, you will always be my first car; no one can change that.”
“Whenever someone asks which car is my favourite, I usually say, “This one”
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