The One

My White Elephant,

I wake up feeling like a part of me just went missing. My behaviour seems a bit ubsard to the people around. Of course, if we are going to get money from the insurance company and I have a car to drive, I shouldn’t feel bad.
If you were around, I would have locked your door, we would have stared at the sky and I would have cursed or better still we would have driven to our favourite flyover and the blarring music would have drowned out the ambient noise.

I have always believed , “To know a person, you have to observe them when they are alone with no one around to play the game with. When you see them with their guard down, you catch a glimpse of their essence.” Question is-unless you are a Peeping Tom, how would you do that? But you my Dear Friend, were the Peeping Tom, my five year old diary, my most consistent companion.

We’ve gone on such crazy adventures, you and I. You remember, when the Srinagar -Delhi highway was closed and we took 42 hours to get back home. The number of times, my assistant would cover your windows with a black background, so I could park you on the side of the road and sleep for a few hours. You remember how difficult your first winter trip to Kashmir was? After a while, I guess you realised that it was your fate, to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Whether, it was the harsh weather or the men who tried to follow us, together we braved it all.

I can’t recall the last time I acknowledged loving someone. But I loved you, loads. That you were not a living being doesn’t make two hoots of a difference. Thank you for being there and for keeping me safe. Thanks for letting me cry over your steering wheel, every single day for almost a year. You were my unflinching shoulder. In a few months, your replacement will arrive. It may be new, bigger or faster than you…but you will always remain my favourite partner in crime.

Missing shoulder

One of those years when I need to frequent Police Stations. My beautiful white elephant, my bestest friend in the whole world, was stolen last night. That I’m furious and heart broken is an understatement. For someone who has had one constant vice – incessant driving, my vehicles have witnessed the best and the worst times.

Have always had an aversion to the vardi. When I was little and there was much drama in the house, some cop or the other would frequent our house for disruption. But it’s a different day..sitting across some very helpful vardiwallas, right now, waiting for a hard copy of the FIR.

P.S

Parked my car by the side of the road, to type the previous post. On Sundays, the cops don’t ask you to move the vehicle from the flyover. It’s always a lovely setting to muse. I try to start the car but the battery is down.

I wait a while since I love the place where I am stranded, then start to call a few mechanics. But can’t find anyone to help me, today.  Message my friend, to inform him of my whereabouts. Over the past year, he’s been fussing over me like a mother hen and wants regular updates. Of course, he instantly calls up. “Leave the car and go home”. No can do.

I get off the car and decide to push my white elephant, myself. Of course,  I can’t move it at all. There I am-  trying to push my vehicle, laughing uncontrollably,  on top off my favourite flyover, when a family stops to help me.  The husband and wife with the help of their teenage children push my vehicle a little and then I’m able to drive it down the descending slope.

I park the car… hail an auto… go to the nearest petrol pump. The mechanics are leaving for the day but are kind enough to help me out. While, they fix the car a lady who lives under the flyover, stops to chat with me. We are old acquintances. Time flies by between messages from my friend and conversations, with some lovely people. What dull stories, the kindness of strangers make? That’s why we never recall all the times when we reach home safe, after dark.