Getting there

It was pure freedom, being locked into a tight group of cars, 5 abreast on a 3-lane main road. Everyone waiting for the light that would allow them to get on with their day – some, impatient, not waiting at all. My hands gripped the steering wheel of the tiny red car that I had dreamt of driving since I had watched Cars the movie. And then, it was lights out and away we go.

The responsibilities thrust onto an 18-year old the minute they enter legal adulthood are immense. From that anxious feeling of not knowing whether you’ve committed tax fraud yet because you didn’t know how to file them, to the pressure of taking a good ID picture, a hallmark of the 18 experience is the sudden need to stand in line. But if there’s one line I didn’t mind standing in, it was the one to get my license. Even then, it took many a ‘sir please karvado na’ (sir, please help me) to get the document that seems to cement the freedom of any teenager, with a surprisingly decent picture.

This ‘freedom’ while driving seems to be universal, an almost biological urge that transcends cultural norms. From my Indian and American classmates point of view, and the British teen cars challenge on the old Top Gear, all of us are just itching to drive. There’s nothing like taking sole responsibility for scratching the neighbor’s WagonR while backing out to experience this freedom. The concept of the open road is fascinating! On one of our more recent travels where I was finally allowed behind the wheel, there was an innate curiosity that manifested itself every time the straight highway dipped below the horizon. This freedom called to me, inviting me to explore a world beyond the next meter, only slightly hampered by my mother’s ‘Raghav, dheere chalao!‘ (‘Raghav drive slowly’!) But driving was more than that for me. It was the culmination of independence, which to me has wildly different implications. Independence is freedom with responsibility – it’s the pressure on me to make my freedom functional, and use every opportunity to prove myself, to myself, now on the open road (read gridlocked city planning disaster).

Ofcourse, driving in Mumbai has taught me much more than my fantasized notions of independence. For all my fascination with this city, driving in it brings out a different side, the commercial masterpiece that literally never sleeps. The city stops for no one – not flash floods, nakabandis (police barricades), pedestrians or other cars. In comparison to the ever-moving road, even the local train seems orderly. I often joke (out of fear) that every drive is an adventure, a test of my survival instincts. Being able to judge every inch and process every brake light while snaking your way through the Maximum City is a skill that can take a lifetime to master.

More than just driving, learning to drive in Mumbai was the most dramatic experience I have ever undertaken. Fittingly, I learned to drive in the smallest of gallis (narrow streets) at 5:30pm filled with the largest sample of our 1.4 billion people. I am quite certain I learned to use the horn before actually learning the basics of clutch driving. To make things worse, it was the peak of the 2021 Formula One season, and suddenly every road had its own racing line. To miss the apex on the left-hander just before reaching school felt criminal. Every traffic jam on the way back became tactical, with Ayrton Senna yelling at me that I am not a racing driver if I don’t go for the gap in between two overloaded Eicher trucks.

If you believe that Formula One is the pinnacle of motorsport, I implore you to turn the channel to the commuter rush every night from 5-9pm IST. The circuit? Elphinstone bridge – a whopping 1km long 1.5 car width road set in the heart of the city. The average lap time here is about an hour, although the lap record can still be measured in single digit minutes (somehow). Although there may be space for just one car to pass at a time, 5 taxis will compete ferociously every second to be the leader of the pack right there. And I love every bit of it. It’s driving in this city that reinstates my faith in a higher power – more accurately, the power that dictates traffic lights. My passengers can always see me crossing my fingers, praying that I can get out in the next light, and subsequently hear my disappointment when we miss it by a few seconds.

Although this harrowing recollection is nothing short of a Mad Max film sequence, it never felt like a lot. And how could it, when I was always accompanied by the handy red Santro. For those who may not be aware of my intense love for this car, it’s a tiny Hyundai with a brake horsepower of just 62, a freakish (read virtually non-existent) 0-60 time and stylish aerodynamics, and a part of our household for the last twenty-two years. It was a simple car – a tiny stereo with a volume knob that turned the wrong way, old-fashioned air conditioning that cooled to the same temperature regardless of the slider’s position and an ever present wincing sound when you moved from 2^nd to 3^rd gear. Having grown up in one, constantly on the road between the Qutb Minar and home, I went from a car-seat to the driver’s seat in that car. Black, cream and blue had led up to red, the one I loved to call my own.

There were never expectations when I set out in the Santro. I was just another average, determined Mumbaikar anxious to beat the hubbub and circumvent the perils of metro construction. It let me blend in the crowd of black & yellow taxis (despite my self-proclaimed distinct racing red). I slipped through the gaps that were impossible with any other cars, saving me hours of unmoving traffic. I was never afraid of touching another car, simply because of the confidence the Santro gave me. It was harmless, ever smiling, and almost always out of wiper fluid. It had my back, and I trusted it with all my life.

When it’s time had come, on the back of 12 years of delightful rides, it was hard to part ways. I was amazed, and confused, at how much I loved that car. It feels indescribable. It felt similar to the love the global car community has for its supercars and fancy roadsters, but different at the same time. To me, the Santro was more than a car. It hosted my Dunzo-ed biryani-lunches that were not allowed in the house, served as a comfortable couch as I waited for my sister to leave school, and was part of my family for as long as I can remember. It put a smile on my face every time I saw it, and got me through some of my most difficult moments.

(On a lighter note, heres a collection of driving memes I made for my Instagram stories that I felt particularly proud of!)