Don’t ask me why, but growing up my blue-collar altar ego always wanted to be a bus driver! That’s right. I said it! Visions of me maneuvering those black-smoke spewing behemoths around crowded streets, hollering at passersby and cyclists made my day. But I’m 31 now (groan!) and I’ve painfully come to realize that for the rest of my doggone existence no one’s ever going to hand me over a bus. Next best thing? A cab driver, of course. Armed with the requisite permits, inside knowledge of the city and a willingness to curse everyone at the drop of a hat, I figure I’ll eventually get to drive one of them “call taxi” or “tourist cab”. But until then I’ll be committing bloopers like,
“I’ll get you to the airport in ½ an hour!”
What baloney! From one end of the city? Seriously man, what do you expect? The 405 freeway to part like the Red Sea for your golden chariot!
I’m not kidding. My friend almost gave it up as a lost cause while his mom freaked out even further. Horrified that she’d be stuck in Los Angeles the rest of her life and will never see India again! That bad time and traffic (mis)management from me.
Like my others such as orbiting around outer space or playing sleek cover drives for India, becoming a “cab driver” is undoubtedly yet another pipe dream. Dreams do get to become reality, or in my case something close to that. I hit the lottery (so to speak) when on vacation in India I got to chauffeur my mom from Chennai to Bangalore (and back) in my dad’s gleaming “Tata Indica GLS 5 speed manual transmission” car…
For the uninitiated, driving on Indian roads isn’t akin to eating a fruitcake. Every imaginable piece of machinery from tricycles to bulldozers is present and rightfully jostles for that available wee bit of space, honking horns like crazy to prove their point. Each driver begins his/her journey with a sense of entitlement which is why he/she drives in the middle of the road at speeds he/she determines appropriate, traffic signs and rules be damned. A point which my dad attempted to drive into me ad nauseam, almost to the extent of driving him (and me) crazy. I of course, would’ve nothing to do with it and kept screaming “If I can drive across the America in the middle of winter, 750 kms is like a walk in the park” Never mind that superior road conditions over there means you can practically coast with half your eyes closed.
D-Day (a.k.a. Saturday) dawned bright and sunny and my mom woke me up with a twinkle and a huge smile. A smile that could only mean “I’m with you on this one son!” My dad who until then had been hovering in the sidelines praying for a volte face from me suddenly announced that his driver would be arriving in 15 minutes to perform some “preliminary checks” on the car. Shrewd she is, my mom understood what that meant and gently nudged me to get my a** off the newspaper and get ready if I wanted to garner solo credits. Yes mom!
Ten minutes later we sprinted off to the car and my dad who had finally resigned to the inevitable went over the checklist he had come up with up.
- Call him and my elder uncle every 1 hour to give note of our progress. What cities had passed, what remained and how traffic was behaving on the highways. Should I also count how many cows and goats passed by?
- Stop after every 1 hour for 15 minutes to “recharge my batteries”
- For the life of me ensure the speedometer wouldn’t nudge past 60kmph.
“Maybe we’re better off dropping Mom at the bus station and let the Volvo driver take care of business!” But… sassing my dad never got me nowhere so I agreed to everything with a straight face. Our driver, my mom figured would be close to within a stone’s throw of home so I quickly slammed the car in reverse announcing my intentions of wanting to get the hell out of there. I looked up to see the watchman and his family and a couple of neighbors intently watching the proceedings and judging by their faces I sensed they weren’t exactly on board with my heroism. Whatever! I smiled weakly, blew a few kisses at the crowd and quickly threw the car into gear.
7.15am and finally our caravan rolled out of the gate. My mom patted me proudly as if I was taking her to the moon. I returned the favor yelling “Whoopdedoo!” May the Forces be with us…
Contrary to common public perception it isn’t exactly a death sentence every time you get on the road. Yes there are stray bums who want to make a statement but by and large if you mind your P’s and Q’s (read pay obeisance to MTC buses and water tankers) you’re guaranteed to reach home in one piece. Unblinking I chose this as my motto. Daddy would be proud!
Twenty minutes later we were off city limits and my mom declared that we should go look at their newest baby. That swank three bedroom house she and Dad bought a few months back. Ideally I would’ve liked the first pit stop after Kanchipuram or even further but then drivers don’t dictate no agenda.
“Are there going to be any roads in the future or should we upgrade to an All Terrain Vehicle?” I loudly wondered as my car creaked through the numerous potholes en route. I stopped in front of a chic cream colored palace and let out a few wolf whistles. Construction complete, she was definitely a beauty. Whatever indecisiveness my dad was (in)famous for they obviously didn’t apply to houses. This was the second one they’d bought in four years and given his recent comments I suspected another apartment or piece of land was in the works. Why buy ‘em if you aren’t going to live in any? Anything more than fifteen minutes of ogling a locked house isn’t healthy, I surmised and agreed with mom to get back on the road.
I’ve driven on my share of excellent roads in the States but NH-4 blew my mind right away. Three lanes on each side paved smooth demarcated by flowers and trees with signs telling you where to go. Was this really India? “This is the case all the way” my mom assured my open jaws that were still soaking up the sight refusing to shut up. I deftly swerved past a three wheeler Tempo blissfully driving at 40kmph in the right lane and discreetly spiked the baby past 100kmph. Maybe she wanted to be pushed, since the car readily agreed without any body tremors. Hop, skip and jump and the three of us were now officially speeding our way to Bangalore…
Whatever stray thoughts I’d about my mom having a stiff upper lip were quickly quashed. For the next few hours she kept me abuzz and alive with every news item worthy of its salt, including her take on it. Politicians (state and central) were thrashed and film stars were thrown down the wayside. Even my erstwhile school wasn’t spared when she recounted their wheelings and dealings that caused so much heartburn in their careers and lives. And I thought I’d be listening to a science lesson!
I did miss my dad in this trip though. Seriously. So many cities Vellore, Ambur, Vaniyambadi, Krishnagiri waved back at us and I’m sure he would’ve had his share of stories to reminisce about each. Considering the man’s travelled all over South India quite a few times in his illustrious career and accumulated a lifetime of experience. I overtook quite a few TNSTC buses whose route numbers and destinations I had no clue about. Daddy would’ve given a sermon on each!
Surprisingly this wasn’t a non-stop journey as many might’ve assumed. We stopped exactly twice. First at a rundown gas station to fill up my close-to-empty tank. My mom whipped out her credit card which was promptly returned back by the confused attendants who probably hadn’t seen one before. I don’t know who was more shocked, them or her. I however had my own stuff to worry about. Like whether they were pumping petrol or kerosene. Given that the entire place was a glorified solitary open air pump.
“Tire pressure check…” I started off.
“Athellam inga illa” (We don’t have that here) shot back the attendants quickly waving us off eager to get back to their gossiping. Right! They’d probably get to the air pump once they put a roof over their heads!
Second was at a much better HP station to check my tire pressure. Normally this would be as interesting as gulping coffee in a Udipi hotel but the reason it struck a chord was because the attendants flatly refused to accept any gratuity from me. Wow! I tried upping my tips to as much as Rs. 20 but was smilingly informed that it was against company policy. I instantly felt even smaller for having attempted to “bribe” him.
In my feeble defense I did want to stop for lunch (or even snacks) but try finding a “High Class Pure Vegetarian” restaurant (mom’s perennial choice) on the highways. Especially after you’ve missed Arusuvai (2a on Dad’s checklist), which was supposedly one-of-a-kind according to him. I was hoping there’d be some Bhavans in Vellore or Krishnagiri but gave up trying when nothing turned up. “We’ll go home and figure something out” I decreed. End of story.
Hosur was the last major city on our way and announced its arrival through a cacophony of buses and vans parked in the middle of the road causing me and a few others to come to a grinding halt and navigate through the mess. “You’ll be entering Karnataka any minute now” my mom informed. I felt an immediate pang leaving Tamil Nadu though I knew I’d be dragging my a** back in less than 24 hours. No “Welcome to Karnataka” signs yet. Maybe I ought to push her back to 100kmph.
“There it is” I yelled shaking my mom off her catnap pointing at those ubiquitous BMTC Pushpak buses serenely parked at a bus stand in Attibele. God! Weren’t they beautiful! In my unbridled enthusiasm I almost veered into two three wheelers in my lane drawing one of my mom’s patented “You’re dead meat now” glares. Relax mom! As much as I wanted to show them Bangalore autorickshaw drivers that I could give back some I bit my lip. No sense getting into any fender benders or scrapes and risk taking the shine of my thus far excellent portrayal. “Thirty minutes more of good behavior and you can go home to a hero’s welcome”, I consoled myself.
Om namo Venkatesaya. Om namo Venkatesaya…
My mom’s cell phone ringtone! As predicted that was my uncle who had now got wind that we were nearing base and promptly shot off instructions to my mom on the quickest route home.
“Take a left at Silk Board, then right, then left….”
What the #$%^ was “Silk Board” and how the hell was I supposed to find it? Every darn building and road looked the same! Quite rightly I missed that and stayed on the highway as if it’d lead me to the Promised Land. Road started getting narrower which meant we were getting into the city.
“Bangalore traffic is the worst!” I heard my friends’ voices echo in my mind. True, since tenfold more drivers were cutting across and honking crazy and almost every vehicle seemed to be a huge deluxe bus. I had to fight to stay on the road and keep looking for directions to Jayanagar. Oh! And also reassure my mom that I’d been down this road a million times and could find my way home with my eyes closed. Bulls**t!
“When in doubt follow a BMTC bus”. Those gargantuans always go to either Majestic or K.R. Market, two places whose whereabouts I knew. I picked a shining red one that seemed to be travelling quite fast and sometime later proudly announced to my passenger “Fifteen more minutes and we’ll be home”. We were at a flyover and even with my limited topography I knew I wasn’t fibbing this time. “Go straight, take a left at Tilaknagar, left at 4th block…”, I ran over the route in mind. Suppress that smile idiot, you aren’t home yet! I tried in vain but that thin one on the edge of my lips just refused to fade away.
We could’ve reached home a good ten minutes earlier if I wasn’t so intent on letting every motorcycle, autorickshaw and car pass by. My adrenaline was now officially through the roof and I was surprised that I could even hold the wheel. Final left turn and it all came back. “#61 11th A Main” waiting in all her splendor to welcome her prodigal son. I honked twice to announce our arrival. My aunt, younger uncle and cousin rushed outside and I high fived with each one wearing an expression of “Oh! No big deal!”, acting as if I’d been doing this trip every weekend.
Whew! I did it! I #$%^in’ did it! 6 hours of close-to-perfect driving and a bagful of memories later, I was finally home.
Thirty minutes later my elder uncle sauntered in. This is a man who had driven through vast stretches of India when the rest of the family was still enamored with bicycles (so to speak). Not to mention the most accomplished driver among all of us. In some ways my victory march was kind of like a coming-of-age party in his eyes. I screamed “Who’s the man? Who’s the man?” and enveloped him in a bear hug that we’d perfected over the years.
“So you finally did it, huh?”
“Yes sir” I beamed, almost ready to burst with joy. Can we hand over the torch to me now, please?
The hardest part of a road trip ever is the return journey back. Shorn off enthusiasm and effervescence every mile takes longer making you wonder why on earth you couldn’t have stayed a day or two longer. My thoughts exactly as I prepared to leave home for Chennai the next day. 2.00pm chimed my watch. 24 hours had passed in the blink of an eyelid and what was left next was the “boring” drive. Boring? Try same road, same towns, same sights, except now they were on the left side.
I would’ve loved taking the Old Madras Road back but the elder statesmen would’ve nothing of it. “Too much traffic and just one lane” my uncle repeated over coffee shaking his head vigorously. Translation: Don’t stretch your luck and stick to the game plan son. Drive back the same way you came and we’ll give you a plaque. Heck! If I was going to be strong-armed I might as well try to make it interesting. Grim faced, lips pursed, 5 ½ hours and a precision drive that would’ve made F1 drivers proud later I deposited my mom safe and sound in front of my beaming Dad. Whew!
Hindsight’s always 20-20. Maybe I could’ve let my mom visit a couple of temples on the way. Maybe even stopped for tea and snacks considering she’d been dropping hints that grew louder by the hour since we crossed Bangalore city limits. No! Hell hath no fury like a driver’s ego scorned. I had to treat the return journey like a race against time as if going one up over the Volvo bus driver was supposed to mean something. But… you live and learn. Next time I’m driving anyone else besides me I promise to provide spirited conversation, frequent restroom breaks and lunch and dinner at the choicest restaurants. Even if I’ve got to take a detour off the highways…
“Who’s the man?” Well… 11 ½ hours 750 kms and two joyrides later I think I can at least throw my hat into the ring. Thank you Dad. Thank you for letting me fly.
