“Tring, tring!”

I answered the call. It was my wife. After settling our daughter at a hostel in Delhi, she was on the flight back to Bengaluru. After the flight, it would be the bus. I assured her that before she reaches the drop point on the highway, I would be there to pick her up and drive down to our home.

The call ended.

It would have taken only about five minutes, so I took the car out at 0015, only to find that a tyre was punctured. I tried to park the car back, but it refused to climb the inclined portico.

I had already wasted two precious minutes.

There was no time to lose. I called up my wife and informed that I was walking down to receive her, and so she may have to wait a bit. She had no option but to agree with me.

I soon realised that if I continued to walk, she would have to wait for more than “a bit” on the highway with a large suitcase in the dead of the night.

A quarter of a kilometre remained yet to be covered. I started running in my Bata chappals. Some street dogs appreciated my athletic pursuit, some objected to it, and some decided in favour of a closer examination. I ignored them till I met her.

The way back home was not a silent affair. Dragging of her suitcase over pebbles, potholes, speed-breakers, etc., created a symphony throughout the half-a-kilometre route. The suitcase did not like it and conveyed its displeasure by picking favourite spots on both sides of my ankles for repeated painful assaults. Not to be cowed down, I cursed the suitcase and its family tree every time my dignity was challenged.

Ever-enthusiastic to make things better, I replaced the wheel with the stepney the next morning, only to find that it was in total sympathy with its just ousted sister. I wonder how the stepney became completely unusable in three years flat when I had got it inflated last.

Just after nine in the morning I was once again on the road, this time holding a deflated wheel. My wife suggested that we should roll it on the road, but I did not succumb to the temptation. The shop was closed, and remained so for about an hour. We sat on the steps of another shop and talked to the next door butcher, "Bhaiyya, yeh tayar walla kab ayega?", praised the professional approach of the Delhi tayar wallas, shared sweet memories of puncture repair in our yesteryears, drank three glasses of some excellent coffee, spoke to the tayar walla on his cell phone, and waited. Finally, the tayar walla arrived, but decided to attend to an auto walla first who wanted to buy a new tube. We waited for our turn, and, mission accomplished, walked back with the wheel under my arm.

By this time my arms, clothes, legs, etc, were full of the filth that a tyre loves to bite into. My wife decided to serve breakfast, spoonfeeding it, while I divided my time between hushing a dog away and tightening the bolts.

I took half-day leave, and was back at the office in the afternoon. The story of the adventure has remained a secret till now!