<p>The day after I bought my pre-owned Maruti 800, I walked into a nearby driving school to enrol myself. "Let us start right away,” said the instructor and asked me to follow him. The car he led me to was a black ambassador with white leucoderma patches. There were dents on its body, sustained in accidents presumably caused by previous learners. It looked like one of those seized cars we find stacked one over another in police stations. </p>.<p>“Start the engine,” he said, easing into the co-pilot’s seat next to mine. I turned the ignition key. Surprisingly, the car woke up with a tiger-growl. “Press the clutch pedal and shift the gear to position one, and... release the clutch pedal slowly.” I bungled this very first step by letting the clutch go abruptly. The car performed a frog-jump. “I am here to teach you how to drive, and it seems you are here to teach my car how to dive,” he snapped. When I tried the horn, nothing happened. Is this an Ambassador or a dumbassador? I asked. What I got back from the instructor for this joke was a stern stare.</p>.<p>The instructor’s set of pedals, it seemed, did not work. He used my set, stretching his log of a leg across to manipulate mine. He slammed the clutch, banged the brake, and trampled my feet with his foot. He turned the steering wheel using his trunk-arm. In short, he didn’t allow me to drive at all. He did everything himself. I was thoroughly frustrated. “Why don't you give me a free hand and leg and allow me to drive a bit?" I begged the fellow. “You know what will happen if I give you a free hand and leg? You will cripple and maim half a dozen people in half a minute," he admonished.</p>.<p class="bodytext">After cruising through three or four streets and lanes, we entered a busy main road. “This is my first day. Don't you think it is too early to venture onto the main road?" I asked the instructor. He simply brushed aside my concern and said, “Why fear when I am here? Just go ahead." My forehead turned wet with sweat. Behind us was a big bus breathing heavily down our necks. On our right was an autorickshaw whose driver gestured towards us with an angry face, uttering most probably very bad words. On our left, a two-wheeler rider with a helmet scowled at me through his visor. Just then the engine of our car sputtered and stopped. The instructor got out and hid his head under the hood of the car like an ostrich, which buries its head in the sand when it confronts a dangerous situation. People started shouting, surrounding our car. Police came. Behind the police came the vehicle fitted with a crane to tow away our grand old Ambassador to where I thought in the beginning it belonged—a police station yard for seized cars. Thus ended this learner’s first day out.</p>
<p>The day after I bought my pre-owned Maruti 800, I walked into a nearby driving school to enrol myself. "Let us start right away,” said the instructor and asked me to follow him. The car he led me to was a black ambassador with white leucoderma patches. There were dents on its body, sustained in accidents presumably caused by previous learners. It looked like one of those seized cars we find stacked one over another in police stations. </p>.<p>“Start the engine,” he said, easing into the co-pilot’s seat next to mine. I turned the ignition key. Surprisingly, the car woke up with a tiger-growl. “Press the clutch pedal and shift the gear to position one, and... release the clutch pedal slowly.” I bungled this very first step by letting the clutch go abruptly. The car performed a frog-jump. “I am here to teach you how to drive, and it seems you are here to teach my car how to dive,” he snapped. When I tried the horn, nothing happened. Is this an Ambassador or a dumbassador? I asked. What I got back from the instructor for this joke was a stern stare.</p>.<p>The instructor’s set of pedals, it seemed, did not work. He used my set, stretching his log of a leg across to manipulate mine. He slammed the clutch, banged the brake, and trampled my feet with his foot. He turned the steering wheel using his trunk-arm. In short, he didn’t allow me to drive at all. He did everything himself. I was thoroughly frustrated. “Why don't you give me a free hand and leg and allow me to drive a bit?" I begged the fellow. “You know what will happen if I give you a free hand and leg? You will cripple and maim half a dozen people in half a minute," he admonished.</p>.<p class="bodytext">After cruising through three or four streets and lanes, we entered a busy main road. “This is my first day. Don't you think it is too early to venture onto the main road?" I asked the instructor. He simply brushed aside my concern and said, “Why fear when I am here? Just go ahead." My forehead turned wet with sweat. Behind us was a big bus breathing heavily down our necks. On our right was an autorickshaw whose driver gestured towards us with an angry face, uttering most probably very bad words. On our left, a two-wheeler rider with a helmet scowled at me through his visor. Just then the engine of our car sputtered and stopped. The instructor got out and hid his head under the hood of the car like an ostrich, which buries its head in the sand when it confronts a dangerous situation. People started shouting, surrounding our car. Police came. Behind the police came the vehicle fitted with a crane to tow away our grand old Ambassador to where I thought in the beginning it belonged—a police station yard for seized cars. Thus ended this learner’s first day out.</p>
