The Drivers Licence Story

When I turned 16 (yeah, this story is OLD), we had to get me a licence. Now, I had already been driving for a bit, so I didn't really need formal lessons, but in the city that I was living in at the time (Madras), one of the requirements was that you needed a licenced instructor to sign off on a sheet that said you had taken 12 classes. Ordinarily, like SO many things in India, this can be done quickly with an appropriate amount of money exchanged under the table. But my dad doesn't do bribes (he's one of those). Instead, he sent me packing to a driving instructor. The one closest to my home happened to be "Dhanalakshmi Driving School". Dhanalakshmi is the goddess of wealth; pretty suggestive that we should have just paid the money off, but my dad was determined to get me formal driving lessons. So I enrolled for my 12 classes at Dhanalakshmi.

The "school" was a room that was about 8' x 8'. There was a desk, a bench for visitors, and a folding chair for the owner and head instructor, a potbellied unshaven drunk with red baggy eyes and an inadequate combover. I think his name was Mahendran. He seemed a little disappointed that we didn't just pay up and ask for his signature. But he did accept the money with a devout glance towards the eastward facing wall, which was covered with pictures of a variety of gods and goddesses (he had his bases covered) and agreed to teach me the basics of driving in India. All this seemed to satisfy my dad, so we left with instructions to come back the next day at 6 am.

I showed up at about 6 am at the shack, and there are a group of about half a dozen dudes already there. They were a bit older than I was, dressed in their Sunday best, and were looking around nervously. I understood immediately - these guys were also here for lessons, but for them, driving was going to be an occupation, their means of earning money, as opposed to what it was for a spoiled brat like me. Mahendran seemed to understand this as well, because he treated me very differently from the rest of them. The first thing he did was to send a couple to the gas station with a canister and just enough money to get half a gallon of gas. He then sent another dude to a shop to get a few lemons, and yet another couple to get rags and a bucket of water. They all shuffled off dutifully, and Mahendran and I were left alone. We eyed each other somewhat uneasily, and then settled into a mutually agreeable silence. I looked at the car that Mahendran owns, the pride of Dhanalakshmi Driving School. It was a white 1965 HM Ambassador, which looked more than a little weatherbeaten. There were rusty patches, and at least 3 layers of different shades of white paint peeling off. I also noticed it had a behind-the-wheel manual gear box. Great.

Once the guys showed up, he made two or three of them clean the windshield and wheels of the car, while he popped the hood open. I took a peek inside and immediately wished I hadn't. The thing was basically a bucket of rusty bolts. It literally looked like little bits of engine would fall off if we stared too long. Mahendran then took the canister half full of gas, fastened it to a small shelf on the inside of the hood with some twine, and shoved in some tubing that ran to the engine. Apparently, this was to be our fuel injection system. But we hadn't pleased the gods yet (which by now, I was really counting on to deliver me back home in one piece). To this end, the guy pulled out an incense stick from his pocket, lit it, and went around with it in front of the god wall and the car, chanting unintelligible prayers (he did look a little drunk from the previous night). He then extinguished the stick and saved whatever was left it for the next day. Finally, he had one of the minions place four lemons under each wheel of the car. This done, the eight of us (yes, eight) bundled into the car, with Mahendran at the wheel. With a last whispered prayer, and with an emphatic crunching of the gears and crushing of the lemons, we were off.

(... to be contd. in Pt. 2)