Wagons and wheels

Long ago on Air Force station, Pune, there used to be Flight Lieutenant Smith the name is a cover, the personality is not. He was a very s...

Long ago on Air Force station, Pune, there used to be Flight Lieutenant Smith the name is a cover, the personality is not. He was a very suave man, an RAF pilot typical of those days 8212; scarf around the neck, side cap at a jaunty angle and always in a G suit!

In other words, Smith could have been just another fighter. But for the fact that he had a car, an old Fiat. In those days, a car was a very visible status symbol. Now because Smith had a car, he wanted a chauffeur too. So he trained his orderly to drive and then got him a suit with epaulettes and all. This was mainly so that when Smith was to step into the car, his chauffeur would salute, open the door, and then Smith would settle down into the seat. Outside the Officer8217;s Mess, this was a ritual watched by most of the other residents, if not from the verandah, then from the many windows that opened onto the driveway. Now, one could hear the key turning and the engine just would not kick. It was dead as a doornail. No amount of coaxing would make the engine start.

Out would step Smith, all his ceremony in tatters. He would look around and ask the men who had been watching, 8220;Come on, guys. Push!8221; Finally with all the pushing the car would start and take off down the driveway. The whole ritual would then start all over again, the next morning.

Another time another place. It was the boisterous festival of Holi. The beer had been drunk and the bhang pakoras eaten. Now this pack of revelers was all set to paint the town red and they needed a vehicle. They got hold of Old Man Gokhale8217;s car and piled in. But the old stationwagon refused to start. There were nearly ten of them packed like sardines, and they refused to get out of the car. The most sober among them flagged down a passing bullock cart. The car was hitched on to the bullock cart and they were wheeled into town.

Have you had your car stall when you have at least 20 vehicles behind you? It is one of the most embarrassing predicaments. My old Fiat used to give me trouble every time we came to this crossing 8212; romantically called Paradise Crossroads. She would refuse to take the climb in her stride and would inevitably start rolling back. Each time the mechanic would have to be summoned. Finally, I managed to sell the car for a sum that was little more than what the kabariwalla would have offered for its scrap value.

But guess what, when we returned to Hyderabad after four years we found our old Fiat up on a jack. It was parked outside a small house in a small bylane in Secunderabad. She still had not been sold by weight to the kabariwalla.