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| A Regular Warhorse |
Uncle K was a distant relative. An ebullient, kindly soul, the only passion in his life was cars. Like vintage wine, he liked them old and seasoned. “Nothing like an old warhorse”, he would joke. Uncle K was an old time resident of Bangalore Cantonment. He lived in a cute, little bungalow with a stately portico. All old Bangaloreans possessed cars. Like ornaments embellishing a beauty, Uncle also owned a car which adorned his portico. Being a frugal man, he preferred second-hand cars which came cheap. They therefore were permanently in a state of repair. If the clutch worked, the accelerator did not and so on. This provided Uncle with a ready excuse for not taking his family out and thereby saving on fuel. It was a joke that he fancied diving under his car to driving it. Kids in the family clarified prepositions with a joke,” If Uncle K is not on the driving seat, he is under it “. Uncle liked nothing better than to potter around his car. Cleaning and wiping the car was a routine exercise never to be missed. Like a mandatory visit to the doctor, Uncle’s car was routinely pushed or pulled to Nambisan’s garage, almost every other day because it needed a tinkering job. The mechanics of Nambisan’s garage were his best chums. “These guys can hold their own against any technician from even General Motors“, Uncle would comment enthusiastically. Uncle was constantly changing his cars. One day it would be a Morris Minor only to give way to a Plymouth after a few days. Father would joke with mother, “What is the CCV (the current car in vogue) “. We had occasion to wander into Uncle’s automotive world when some guests came to stay on holiday. We did not have a car and they had to be taken around. “ Do you think we can ask K his car to take our guests around,” father asked mother to which her reply was that she really could not say because she had never seen any of his cars on the road. After much deliberation, father decided to take a chance and borrow Uncle K’s car. Much to everybody’s surprise, Uncle was expansively generous when approached. “Sure, sure, why not?” he said. ”This Hillman here is a regular war-horse. You can do miles with her engine purring like a contented cat. A ride in her is as smooth as a Mediterranean cruise which is why I call her,” Cruiser Comet ( CC, for short ) ". There’s one minor hitch however”, he added, pausing significantly. “The fuel tank has rusted and it leaks.” He produced an empty petrol can and asked father to directly connect it with a plastic tube to the carburetor. “You can easily do ten to twelve kilometres with the contents of this can. So plan your trip accordingly”, was his parting piece of advice. That was how Cruiser Comet ( CC ) arrived home on a sacred mission. We planned a tour of Vidhana Soudha and Cubbon Park after considering CC’s fuel capacity. Mother, the guests and I piled into the back of the car. Father was at the steering wheel with Ravi, my brother by his side.” Hope CC at least starts,’” Ravi piped up most inappropriately making our guests look slightly apprehensive. “The battery in his previous car drained because he didn’t use it for months”. Despite Ravi’s apprehensions, we had an enjoyable and uneventful trip to Vidhana Soudha and Cubbon Park. Ravi was the ever- faithful assistant to father, holding the petrol can on his lap. A plastic tube draped through an open window by his side connected the can to the engine through an opening in the bonnet. We must have looked an odd sight because some passers-by stopped an d stared. Never one to stop making wise-cracks, Ravi said, “I feel like a nurse administering drips to a patient.” Our collective euphoria was short-lived however. As we approached Queen’s circle, CC decided to show off her tricks. She stalled and sputtered before grinding to a dead halt just ahead of the intersection. Father tried repeatedly to restart the engine. Like a stubborn ox, CC refused to budge. Traffic was whizzing by in an alarming manner. We all got out hurriedly to enable the men to push CC to the road- side. “Why did I ever rely on K’s assumptions and suggestions,” cursed Father under his breath. “Apparently I have miscalculated the mileage that this car can give.” So saying, he walked off to the nearest petrol-bunk to fill up the plastic can. He soon returned with a full can and we resumed the brother-hold- can routine. All of us sent up a silent prayer as father inserted the key into the ignition. Lo and behold! CC sprang to life however and we reached home without further ado. CC was duly returned to Uncle K, the next day with father giving a blow by blow account of her exploits. Maybe it struck a sympathetic chord somewhere for Uncle offered to drop the guests at the railway station in CC, of course! Father agreed and Uncle drove the guests to the railway station, with all of us packed like sardines. As we drew into the station parking lot, Uncle seemed a little ill at ease. He turned to father and said, “You won’t mind if we have to leave quickly? Father looked a little perplexed. Uncle hastened to explain, " I want to leave before the parking lot gets filled up because then I’ll have a problem negotiating CC ". “Why”, asked everybody in a chorus. Uncle K shot back in a serene matter of fact tone, “Because CC can’t go on reverse. Her reverse gear does not work "!
