The Craft-y Me

I love driving my father's ambassador car. I have been doing so for the past ten years, ever since he gave up on driving. People say that I am mad. After all it doesn't make much sense to spend so much money in maintaining such an old car. Maybe they have a point. It doesn't give a good, rather even a decent mileage, anymore. Even the dull blue colour looks ancient. But I love this car. It has sentimental value. My father had bought it when I was born.

That was a little less than thirty years back. It is thus no wonder that when I was transferred from Kolkata to the capital of the country six months back I decided to transport this 'relic' with me as well. Selling off the Honda Civic didn't pose any challenge though. Neither did it take up much time and nor did it affect my EQ or IQ. 

Driving this not-so-sleek vehicle on the Delhi roads has been an altogether new story though. Yes it has the experience of intense maneuvering in the narrow by lanes of North Kolkata for many years; yet the traffic that I had to encounter everyday as I drove from CR Park to Gurgaon was one harrowing experience. To say the least. It didn't end there. Every evening when I used to come home my wife made it a point to tell me to sell of this 'ruin' for a more handsome car - pointing out to our neighbour's shining Skoda. 

My misery for hanging onto sentiments had a to-be-continued tag to it. Soon after coming to Delhi the 'WB' number plate had to be changed to a 'DL' one. My father always bought cars that would end with the digit one and whose grand total would be thirteen. I'm a stickler for family traditions. But replacing the WB-2731 posed a huge problem. I couldn't get the right combination for over sixty-three days. Yes, I had counted the number of days because each day taking this WB plated vehicle would cause a rise in my BP. My boss at office had told me that I should keep 'emergency money' handy if I was planning to go around with the WB number! Ultimately money spoke. A whopping nine thousand rupees. I finally got what I wanted. DL-A6-8041. The total of thirteen and ending with one. Oh ya! It is permissible to disregard the six of the 'A6'. That's what I told myself. 

Finally there was happiness. At least for me. The wife and the son were, of course, not too jubilated. I somehow managed to keep them going with the promise that once I got my bonus I would get them a swanky new car. But odd-even happened before that. My happiness fell flat on its face.

I hate travelling by metro, autos and buses. All the jostling is not for me. Call me the chosen one who has been brought up with a proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, but public transport and I don't gel. I did try the carpool option for a few days. But that didn't work out either. No one was ever ready at the scheduled time. It is not without reason that IST is now called the ‘Indian Stretchable Time’. The wife and son's grumbles had got noisier too. It was time for hard decisions. I had an odd numbered car. Either I had to get an even one sooner than soon or I would had to prepare myself for some road bribery. I began calculating which would be most cost effective. 

Then the idea struck! 

The famous loophole!

I felt excited and broke out in cold sweat - both at the same time. I have never tried to juggle with the law before. I kept asking myself if this time I at all should. The devil got the better of me. My good conscience had decided to hibernate in the Delhi winter. And so after much deliberation I decided to give it a try. 

While everyone slept the morning after their New Year's Eve party, I drove to the nearby craft shop to get my material. Thankfully the shop owner had opened shop despite his hangover! 

A couple of hours later I proudly showed the transformation to my family. You should have seen their faces. Their mouths opened large enough for me to pop in large sized ‘laddus’ into them. However, at that time I couldn't fathom whether it was because of my masterstroke or it was at my stupidity. 

There stood my ambassador car's number plate. DL-A6-8044! The one had gone. The white tape had transformed it into a neat four! The family tradition had been tampered with as much as the number. But what the heck. This was genius. 

What followed was earth shattering. Eardrum shattering. I stood glued to my spot while two people breathed fire down my neck. And it continued till I finally gave in. No one has ever appreciated the mastermind of a born prodigy! With much despair I took off the tape. The one came back to life. And my life, because of the promise that the man of the house made, promised to revolve around the dilapidated car and the polluting autos for the next fifteen days. 

I'm praying all this ends shortly. I can't take the bumpy rides anymore. And I still have that white tape in my study drawer. It tempts me every alternate morning. I'm a man. I might give into temptation soon. 

This is a work of fiction and not a real life event.