Daman
Every weekend a pall of gloom descends on the family. Diwali in Mumbai without Her would have been unbearable... That's why I suggested a trip to Daman - a feeble and futile attempt to run away from memories.
By some unexpected quirk of fate, I happened to get the weekend off. And so I ventured to suggest that we (by we, I meant I'd drive) drive to Daman in the family car. Our trusty maroon Wagon R.
The plan was to stay the weekend at a family friend’s resort, which serves great food, is conveniently located in a quiet secluded place between Vapi and Daman, with a small river flowing nearby.
Pre-trip tayyari
The idea was considered, discussed in great detail and after an hour-long prayer to all our Gods for three consequtive days, Dad finally said Yes.
Then came the hard part. Hurdle No 1. First our family's consultant driver was called to inspect the car inside out. This made Me pray to all our Gods for three successive days: Don't let him spot a) the scratch near the left rear door, b) the broken bumper on the left side and c) the dent on something in the belly of the car that I secretly got fixed. Prayer worked.
Then we took gramma to the family doc. He inspected her and certified her as fit to travel.
Packing for a two-day trip
The car and gramma taken care of, the next thing to do was to pack.
Will six tops be enough, my cousin asked?
For a two day trip? I said rolling my eyes.
And so yours truly did the packing for the entire family. Minimalistic, is the way to go, I preached, taking out five of the tops, three towels, seven handkerchiefs and five pairs of underwear from her bag.
Dad was more methodical. He followed the rule of the three. Three veshtis with golden border, three t-shirts, three shirts, three pants, three bermudas and so on.
My “Will you be wearing ALL of this?” while rolling my eyes, did nothing. Neither did my attempts to secretly remove items from his bag repeatedly during the night. He simply found them and promptly put them back.
There was a lot of activity on the kitchen front as well. Bai was asked to prepare theplas. Bread and butter were purchased. Some murukku, ‘Mixture’ (of assorted fried stuff), khakhra and other munchies were packed. Chocolates which I had received (instead of a Diwali bonus), as appreciation for being an efficient corporate slave, were packed.
A hunt for the thermos flask was instituted and when it was not found, accusations flew thick and fast. Dad said Mom had kept the flask somewhere. Mom said Dad had kept the flask somewhere. With neither being able to produce any evidence, the duo concluded that the most responsible person in the house - me - was responsible for the missing flask.
D-day
And then D day dawned. And all of us trooped to the car.
It felt like the scene from Armageddon where all the drillers clad in spacesuits head towards the rocket that is to transport them to the raging meteor.
Gramma took front seat next to the driver, me.
Dad sat behind me - this was an evil calculated move.* I shall get to this later.
And next to him squeezed in Mom and cousin.
All the goodies, the clothes, the bags etc, jostled for space with my gramma’s wheelchair in the dicky, sorry boot...
The drive
I have a strong suspicion (unfortunately, no proof) that Dad secretly had nine cans of Red Bull laced with double the usual amount of the ingredient that gives you wings.
He invented the concept of backseat driving, and if not, he certainly could give more than a few pointers to the man who did.
Every vehicle next to our car on the road was subjected to a thorough inspection. If there were dents on it, I was permitted to overtake it, but only on one condition -- I was to keep a safe distance of six feet between our car and the vehicle in question at all times. Any closer and he would yell.
The logic? Obviously, if the driver has dents on his vehicle, he is not a very safe driver now, is he?
And of course a different set of rules applied to trucks, which were aplenty on the Mumbai-Ahmedabad highway. Dad would first make me take the car close to the truck (close meant a distance of eight feet, too close meant a distance of less than six feet) and he would then lean out of the car to take a close hard look at the driver of the truck.
I am yet to figure out the logic behind this one, but I was only allowed to overtake certain trucks.
Maybe he had a cut off limit - say Allow family chauffeur to overtake no more than 50 trucks during the entire trip. Or maybe allow daughter to overtake only trucks, which had drivers with moustaches and no beards. Or maybe just brown coloured trucks…
So each time I approached a truck, I had to look in the rearview mirror and wait for his reaction. And if he decided a particular truck passed muster, he would say “Yes, you may.”
Oh, and about *the evil calculated move… Dad chose to sit behind me, and insisted on the windows being kept open, so that he could assist me.
His idea of ‘assistance’? Every time I had to overtake a vehicle or change lanes or halt the car or slow down and stop at a signal, out would come his hand, and he would wave frantically - to let others on the road know of my intentions, which according to him were a secret. This, despite the fact that he would ask me to turn on the indicator about five minutes before I changed the lane, or overtook the vehicle, which of course he would decide.
And his huge outstretched hand would invariably block my view, covering the entire side-mirror, which I had to check to take a look at vehicles approaching from the rear.
I have no idea how we made it. It’s all a blur.
The trip was fun, we lazed around the river, went sari-shopping to Vapi, went to the beach at Moti Daman, had the yummiest Gujju meals and washed them down with several litres of chhaas.
And then there was a slightly mellow repeat performance by dad during the drive back home.
But yay, it was my first (official) long distance drive in my car out of the city. :-)
By some unexpected quirk of fate, I happened to get the weekend off. And so I ventured to suggest that we (by we, I meant I'd drive) drive to Daman in the family car. Our trusty maroon Wagon R.
The plan was to stay the weekend at a family friend’s resort, which serves great food, is conveniently located in a quiet secluded place between Vapi and Daman, with a small river flowing nearby.
Pre-trip tayyari
The idea was considered, discussed in great detail and after an hour-long prayer to all our Gods for three consequtive days, Dad finally said Yes.
Then came the hard part. Hurdle No 1. First our family's consultant driver was called to inspect the car inside out. This made Me pray to all our Gods for three successive days: Don't let him spot a) the scratch near the left rear door, b) the broken bumper on the left side and c) the dent on something in the belly of the car that I secretly got fixed. Prayer worked.
Then we took gramma to the family doc. He inspected her and certified her as fit to travel.
Packing for a two-day trip
The car and gramma taken care of, the next thing to do was to pack.
Will six tops be enough, my cousin asked?
For a two day trip? I said rolling my eyes.
And so yours truly did the packing for the entire family. Minimalistic, is the way to go, I preached, taking out five of the tops, three towels, seven handkerchiefs and five pairs of underwear from her bag.
Dad was more methodical. He followed the rule of the three. Three veshtis with golden border, three t-shirts, three shirts, three pants, three bermudas and so on.
My “Will you be wearing ALL of this?” while rolling my eyes, did nothing. Neither did my attempts to secretly remove items from his bag repeatedly during the night. He simply found them and promptly put them back.
There was a lot of activity on the kitchen front as well. Bai was asked to prepare theplas. Bread and butter were purchased. Some murukku, ‘Mixture’ (of assorted fried stuff), khakhra and other munchies were packed. Chocolates which I had received (instead of a Diwali bonus), as appreciation for being an efficient corporate slave, were packed.
A hunt for the thermos flask was instituted and when it was not found, accusations flew thick and fast. Dad said Mom had kept the flask somewhere. Mom said Dad had kept the flask somewhere. With neither being able to produce any evidence, the duo concluded that the most responsible person in the house - me - was responsible for the missing flask.
D-day
And then D day dawned. And all of us trooped to the car.
It felt like the scene from Armageddon where all the drillers clad in spacesuits head towards the rocket that is to transport them to the raging meteor.
Gramma took front seat next to the driver, me.
Dad sat behind me - this was an evil calculated move.* I shall get to this later.
And next to him squeezed in Mom and cousin.
All the goodies, the clothes, the bags etc, jostled for space with my gramma’s wheelchair in the dicky, sorry boot...
The drive
I have a strong suspicion (unfortunately, no proof) that Dad secretly had nine cans of Red Bull laced with double the usual amount of the ingredient that gives you wings.
He invented the concept of backseat driving, and if not, he certainly could give more than a few pointers to the man who did.
Every vehicle next to our car on the road was subjected to a thorough inspection. If there were dents on it, I was permitted to overtake it, but only on one condition -- I was to keep a safe distance of six feet between our car and the vehicle in question at all times. Any closer and he would yell.
The logic? Obviously, if the driver has dents on his vehicle, he is not a very safe driver now, is he?
And of course a different set of rules applied to trucks, which were aplenty on the Mumbai-Ahmedabad highway. Dad would first make me take the car close to the truck (close meant a distance of eight feet, too close meant a distance of less than six feet) and he would then lean out of the car to take a close hard look at the driver of the truck.
I am yet to figure out the logic behind this one, but I was only allowed to overtake certain trucks.
Maybe he had a cut off limit - say Allow family chauffeur to overtake no more than 50 trucks during the entire trip. Or maybe allow daughter to overtake only trucks, which had drivers with moustaches and no beards. Or maybe just brown coloured trucks…
So each time I approached a truck, I had to look in the rearview mirror and wait for his reaction. And if he decided a particular truck passed muster, he would say “Yes, you may.”
Oh, and about *the evil calculated move… Dad chose to sit behind me, and insisted on the windows being kept open, so that he could assist me.
His idea of ‘assistance’? Every time I had to overtake a vehicle or change lanes or halt the car or slow down and stop at a signal, out would come his hand, and he would wave frantically - to let others on the road know of my intentions, which according to him were a secret. This, despite the fact that he would ask me to turn on the indicator about five minutes before I changed the lane, or overtook the vehicle, which of course he would decide.
And his huge outstretched hand would invariably block my view, covering the entire side-mirror, which I had to check to take a look at vehicles approaching from the rear.
I have no idea how we made it. It’s all a blur.
The trip was fun, we lazed around the river, went sari-shopping to Vapi, went to the beach at Moti Daman, had the yummiest Gujju meals and washed them down with several litres of chhaas.
And then there was a slightly mellow repeat performance by dad during the drive back home.
But yay, it was my first (official) long distance drive in my car out of the city. :-)