Power Trip

I gaze out of the Rs 6-crore, 22-feet long car from the DaimlerChrysler company, while my back gets massaged rather erotically by an in-built thingummy in my king-size seat.

I8217;ve but 45 minutes with this land-yacht, slotted as I8217;m between a reclusive building magnate and a textile baron, who along with an unlikely me are among the 15-odd people invited to this most exclusive of experiences.

I8217;d initially thought of wearing some gold and diamond bracelets borrowed from female friends in order to at least appear rich. But the thought of resembling Bappi Lahiri put me off.

Back to the Maybach then, which is a car nobody needs. This is unadulterated want territory, a vehicle designed with Louis the XIV, Idi Amin and Caligula in mind. But in spite of myself, I8217;m fiddling with an array of buttons inside the car and letting out whoops of delight, like teenage girls do at a boy band concert.

The buttons activate the Bose Surround Sound system, the champagne holder, the electric curtain that drops between the chauffeur and myself, just in case I want to coochie-coo with my secretary, and yet another that transforms my seat into a business-class type reclining throne. Thank heavens, there was no 8216;Happiness8217; button, that would have utterly destroyed me.

I8217;m also interested in the reactions of people on the road, as the gleaming chunk of metal cruises down some of the city8217;s toniest surroundings. A little kid waves to me, a good-looking woman rubber-necks out of her little car, and a clutch of corporate-types in an SUV look it up and at me in awe and admiration. But my eyes are glazed with hauteur and I look through them. Pathetic sods, when will they ever move up in life? A kid selling roses comes up to the window and pleads with me to buy his roses. I want to, but am scared he8217;ll charge me tulip prices for the same. I lower the window just a little, pat him on the back before moving ahead.

Now that I8217;m feeling like Fort Knox itself, I decide to arbitrarily stop at a car showroom. The guard snaps to attention, and two dealership personnel materialise out of nowhere as I exit the car, every ounce of their life spirit geared to pleasing me. 8220;What8217;s the most expensive car you have here?8221; I ask them. 8220;The Grand Vitara, sir,8221; they answer, almost at my feet by now. Really!

I look at my lensman and ask him whether it would do for Cherry, my Rottweiler. Neeraj nods.

I tell the blokes I8217;d like to buy it right away. 8220;But sir, it8217;s not here right now, tomorrow sir, please.8221; 8220;Talk to my secretary,8221; I say, pointing at Neeraj and stomp out of the showroom in a huff. One of the two salespersons run after us and follow us for quite a while as the Maybach pulls out of the showroom and zooms away. Evil, evil me soon has to relinquish the car, and it8217;s back to office in a Third-World cab.

And as the cab stops at a signal, just who do I meet? It8217;s the little rose-seller again. Sheepishness meets realisation, and we both smile at each other. The signal, thankfully, turns green.