Thought Crimes

There are many things that I am. I used to be sweet, cute and innocent. Read earlier entry for more details of that facet. I may be quiet on some rare occasions and obstreperous more often. I am generally indolent and firmly place the aalas factor over everything else. Most people believe that I am facetious. I agree with them and propose a toast to their health. But there are also many things that I am not. I am not a Venus fly-trap. Neither am I Superman. And I am also not a good driver. Not at present anyway. But the day is not far off when some good Samaritan, in the comments section of this post, will write, “You’re not a good driver? Stop being so modest, Lefty.” I shall patiently wait for that day to dawn.

Not being a good driver is something that doesn’t really make much of a difference. You go about things sanguinely while the unlucky soul in the passenger seat is all jittery. For every querulous query of his regarding your expertise behind the wheel, you return a confident riposte. The car might make tremble, the engine might make ominous noises and others might honk with increased vehemence but the driver remains supremely unconcerned. It’s like you’re the KPS Gill of the road, above trivial issues like the performance of our national side.

A plan to meet members of Morons Inc. at CP seemed a good time to test my driving prowess, or lack of it. I arrived at Lazy Labrador's (Thanks, Shrey) kennel, oozing confidence. Lazy Labrador rolled out and we embarked on our quest, little knowing what the day had in store for us. The journey to CP was rather uneventful. There were minor issues like pick-up and gear changing that needed to be addressed, LL informed me. There were also times when he had to bring to my attention that the car was merrily rolling backwards and would touch the life of another of its ilk unless I chose to do anything about the same. I accepted his advice in good faith and continued in my Lefty-ish manner. There were signals where I had to start twice, but in the master plan of Life, the Universe and Everything, double ignition doesn’t really matter. The reader can therefore fast forward to our buoyant arrival (Lazy Labrador’s relieved one) at the heart of Delhi.

Fellow Morons were met, scrumptious chicken at KFC savoured, sundaes at Nirula’s enjoyed and our sojourn at CP came to an end. LL and I therefore set off to complete the second leg of our journey in order to get back to home sweet home. The return started smoothly enough with fewer jolts and double starts. However, it was just the lull before the storm. Or should I say Hurricane? Even that seems inadequate to describe the Chaos that followed.

We got lost. But only slightly. For confident souls that we were, we knew that it was only a matter of time before we got back on track. And with the help of obliging Johnnies here and there, we achieved our goal as far as navigation was concerned. But then disaster struck. The brakes failed. An irritated driver, above petty things like traffic rules made bumper to bumper contact and drove off, cursing. At the same signal, the car refused to start. Or to be more truthful, Lefty refused to let the car start. But eventually I managed to get a grip on myself and got the engine going. Now came the part where LL and I sat with bated breath, waiting for anything to happen any minute. It wouldn’t have surprised us if a spaceship had landed right in front to reveal a talking carrot performing on the mandolin. Conversation became strained, a feeble pretense at trying to believe that things were normal. I did my best to maintain a large gap between the next car and mine while Lazy Labrador gave one useful instruction after another. Each signal had me praying that the car would stop in time.

Finally we reached the aforementioned kennel and LL rolled out, wishing me luck for the remainder of the journey. I managed to traverse that with minimal mishap as well and became happier and happier as the road home got shorter and shorter. At last I was home. Safe, secure and in one piece. Surprisingly so was the car. The teeny weeny scratch on the bumper doesn’t really count. Even Harry has a scar on his forehead.

As I wiped the bits of sweat off my brow and prepared to get off, I made an interesting observation. The handbrake had never been released on the return leg. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your tears!