by Vanessa Able
• If the car breaks down, you are in trouble, as there is no AAA, and may not have service stations which have Nano parts.
• Single beautiful girl like you travelling alone will be worrisome.
I wasn’t worried about hiring the driver that Akhil suggested. I’d been at the wheel since before I was legal, the only daughter of parents desperate to desist from their roles as my personal chauffeurs, and in particular a father bent on passing down his driving skills to the son he never had. Many a Sunday afternoon in my mid-teens was spent stalling my dad’s car around various parking lots. ‘Be one with the machine,’ he would intone with uncharacteristic Yoda-ness that made me suspect he had been preparing for this moment for many years: ‘Feel the rise of the car when you take your foot off the clutch. It’s not a car you are driving; it’s a machine you’re fusing with.’
And fuse I did. Within days of my seventeenth birthday I had passed my driving test (of which I can only recall performing an Olympic-grade three-point turn in yet another car park) and was the proud owner of a Parish of Grouville driver’s licence.1 It didn’t take me long to catch the road bug: at eighteen, I devoured Kerouac’s On the Road like every other teenage Beatnik wannabe. It was the stimulus that inspired my first solo road trip at the age of nineteen: an ambitious, though somewhat less degenerate, voyage that spanned the length and breadth of New Zealand in a Vauxhall Viva purchased for $300 from a Japanese woman in Auckland. In the years that followed, I rented a Yugo and drove through the villages of Serbia, a Tofaş Şahin over the eastern plains of Turkey, a Chevy through the American deserts to the Pacific coast, and a pimped-out Jeep Grand Cherokee in the abysmal traffic of Mexico City. I once even co-drove a behemoth eight-bed caravan through France, Italy and over to Greece, redefining the laws of Newtonian physics round Kefalonian hairpin bends. In short, I was no weteared neophyte: my driver’s CV was extensive and for the most part spotless (barring the one-time orchestration of a three-car pile-up on Ladbroke Grove in London, of which I shall not speak here).
But Akhil was not the only person with consternation for my wellbeing. Soon his assistant Prasad, who was charged with the execution of my request, also began trying to coax me into curbing my plans. He extolled the virtues of India’s other much-loved indigenous vehicle, the Maruti, reiterating that in his opinion, the brand had a much more reliable national support network than Tata.
Undeterred and feigning staunch oblivion to the butterflies this lack of confidence in the Nano was inspiring in me, I went back online and decided to consult Google. I searched for ‘second-hand Tata Nano for sale, India’ and within seconds was returned a search result informing me that a certain Mr Shah of Mumbai was selling his newly delivered yellow Nano LX with only 300 km on the clock.
My phone call with Mr Shah having miserably failed, I entreated Prasad to contact him to try to seal the deal. Prasad came back to me within hours with the happy news that the car was still for sale at the price of two-lakh four or Rs 240,000. That was exactly double what I had expected to pay. It turned out the reason was that there were three models of Nano and not just one: the cheapest model was indeed Rs 100,000, or one lakh, but the more expensive version, the one that listed air conditioning and electric windows among other perks, was a damn sight more. And Mr Shah, being in possession of the latter model, was reselling it, of course, at a premium. At double the price of the cheapest car in the world, it was no longer a bargain, but by that point I was so entrenched in the idea of a road trip that it seemed I had no choice: the cheapie version was nowhere to be seen in my subsequent trawl through Indian used-car classifieds. Needs must when the devil drives, and in the knowledge that this could be my only shot at bagging a Nano, I called Prasad and gave him the go-ahead.
The speed at which things moved after that was a little daunting. Within a couple of days, I received an email from Prasad that bore the triumphant words ‘Nano bought’ in the subject line. Accompanying the email was a trio of shakily framed, steamed-up photos of the car taken from his cell phone at varying angles. I sat down to reassess what was to be my trusty steed for a one-woman road trip around India.
The plan now had to be hiked up from a flight of fancy to something that was definitely going to happen. As such, I branded it: I started a blog called The Nano Diaries and set a distance challenge of 10,000 km, which was what India’s circumference roughly measured. I made a tentative map of the ensuing journey: a hand-drawn circle around the country that started and ended in Mumbai and took in all the major cities like Bangalore, Chennai, Calcutta and Delhi, as well as passing through the Nilgiris hills of the south, right down to Kanyakumari at the southernmost tip, before heading back up the east coast all the way to West Bengal. From there I’d head over to the northern plains, to the cradle of Buddhism in Bihar and India’s most holy city, Varanasi, before going north into the foothills of the Himalayas. My trajectory in that direction ended at the Kashmiri border where the mountains looked a little too Nano-unfriendly. Instead, I would work my way back down through Delhi and Gujarat to finish up again in Mumbai.
It was only at that moment – having set up the blog and committed to 10,000 km in the Nano – that I went back to Prasad’s photos and was struck by just how unroadworthy the car looked: it had no discernible front bonnet or boot, and it was painted a ridiculous, attention-drawing bright yellow. It did not in any way resemble the fantasy compact, all-terrain vehicle I had created on the drawing board of my mind that was somewhere between a Smart Car and a Suzuki Vitara. With four doors, and an undercarriage about eight inches off the ground, this was neither a particularly compact car, nor did it look fit for the miles of off-roading I suspected lay ahead. I began to think that the Toyota Innova might not have been such a bad idea after all.
My mum peered at the triptych of yellow cars on my computer screen. ‘Gosh, it’s tiny!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you sure that’s not a Smart? And where’s the engine?’
Determined not to ignite her incendiary maternal scrub, I tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about and parroted off the specs I had lifted from the Nano website minutes earlier. It might seem small, I began to explain with an air of technical authority, but in fact this particular model boasted a host of luxury features stripped from the mid-range (CX) and standard models in the name of economy. Had she not noticed the beaded roof, the spoiler, the ever-so-subtle tint across the windows, the front and rear fog lamps, the fabric upholstered seats, the – ahem – electronic trip meter, power windows, double cup holder and locks on the passenger side? And of course, it was impossible to tell from these photos, but the car also had air conditioning. Glossing over the scantier safety features and the fact that the front bonnet’s foreshortened size looked like a driver’s legs might take a drubbing from something as light and likely as a bicycle collision, I kept a perfectly straight face when Mum hammered in the final nail.
‘As long as it’s got airbags. Traffic’s a bit hairy over there, isn’t it?’
1
TRIAL BY RUSH HOUR – Girl Meets Traffic
MUMBAI; KM 0
What’s the worst thing about driving in India-aaaaaaarrrrgggghhh?’ I asked Puran from the back seat, my question trailing off into a startled squawk as he narrowly avoided scraping a bus on the left. He didn’t blink before promptly answering, ‘The traffic, madam. Never drive in Mumbai from 8 until 10 morning time.’
I took a mental note, but didn’t really believe that morning traffic was the absolute worst thing about driving in the city. As far as I could see from our little jaunt along the seaside road, every second spent in one’s vehicle here had the flavour of an exhilarating movie car chase, packed with stunts, terror and close calls. Puran drove as though he were auditioning for Mario Cart the Movie: swerving one way then the other, speeding up and slowing down with effortless dexterity in order to overtake, dodge and thread into a gap that looked about half the size of our Skoda. It felt like we were kissing the wing mirrors of every vehicle we passed.
Akhil
had instructed Puran to collect me from Chhatrapati Shivaji International and take me to the Gupta residence, where his cook would be waiting for me with toast, tea and, I was starting to hope, plenty of sympathy. My morning landing in Mumbai coincided perfectly with the early rush hour, and within two hours of disembarking into the tepid humidity of a February morning, I sat sweating in the back, tending to a bruise on my lower calf that was the consequence of a trolley skirmish at baggage reclaim. The incident, a split-second pile-up after a luggage belt mix-up, had given me my first insight into how conflicts over right of way were resolved in India. Now I was watching the same principle play itself out on a larger scale.
‘It’s your first time in India?’ Puran chirped from the driver’s seat, clearly trying to distract me from the visceral fear I must have been emitting in waves from behind.
‘Er, no,’ I replied, though from my bewilderment at what I was seeing out of the window, it might as well have been. I’d always known India’s reputation for manic driving, but the detail had somehow faded from my memory. It was as though, through the rose-tinted filter of my recollection, I had hung on to the country’s more charming images – the sunsets, the smiles, the smoke-filled temples – while discarding the chaff of urban congestion and batty driving.
We were in the eye of a tornado of vehicles expanding out to every last inch of available road space, weaving, swerving, revving, braking, doing just about anything in their capacity to execute their objective, which was to keep on moving forward, no matter what. Lorries rushed past in shades of scarlet, orange and blue; yellow and black taxis barged through barely available gaps; sleek-looking coaches cruised proudly through the fray like metal maharajas; while rickety three-wheelers apparently held together by masking tape and string laced a wobbly path along any available breach.
We bolted past an elegiac road sign that read ‘Speed Thrills But It Also Kills’. Speed Kills: the words burned with the power of a dozen stadium lights into my cortex as I contemplated how was I going to negotiate this traffic quagmire alone. I had already had a taste of suicidal trolley drivers and I had a throbbing leg as evidence. If a trolley could impart such a large bruise, I balked at the thought of what the blood-red lorry – momentarily sat beside us at a traffic light – would be capable of inflicting.
Sitting behind Puran as he ploughed through the relentless throng, I wasn’t sure my nerves could take the quick-fire weaving of two-wheelers between cars that were moving at surprising speeds. Many of the motorbikes were loaded with entire families. Old men on rickety bicycles at the side of the road were overtaken within an inch of their lives by lumbering lorries farting clouds of black smoke. A very knackered-looking bullock pulled a cart piled with hay and topped with six lads taking in the view from the top of the unsecured load. How was it possible, I thought, that hundreds of people weren’t dying in this unholy mess every day?
The simple answer to this is that they were. In India, a person dies in a road accident every five minutes.2 That works out to around 288 deaths per day and over 110,000 per year,3 the highest number of road fatalities for any country. I reflected that it was more than the entire population of my home island of Jersey being snuffed out annually by crashing lorries and colliding buses. How in the name of Dick Dastardly was I going to survive this?
We pulled up outside the gates of Akhil’s apartment building in Breach Candy and I relaxed my grip on the edge of the seat. As we swung into the parking lot, I saw what at first glance looked like a giant lemon stationed under a tree. There she blew (instantaneously a she, a feminine adventurer and sprightly vessel, a she in the way boats and mares are, imbued with womanly dignity and prowess): my Nano, my trusty yellow steed. She was Silver to my Lone Ranger, K.I.T.T. to my Knight Rider, the Tardis to my Dr Who; she was to be my transport, home and confidante for the next three months. I felt like a bride meeting my betrothed for the first time, and I’ll admit to a few tummy tingles as my eyes met her headlights.
I stood back to inspect my Nano in the flesh. At first sight, she was funny looking, sort of awkward and boxy. Her front and back foreshortening made her seem as though someone had sliced off her bonnet and trunk. But what she lost in length, she made up for in height, and from a certain angle she almost looked as tall as she was long. Up close, the tyres appeared smaller even than in the photographs, as did the steering wheel, which you could almost substitute with a large button and not lose much in the way of design or engineering.
Like the several online testimonies I’d read had said, the interior was indeed very spacious. There was legroom galore in the front and a fair amount in the back, with a high roof and wide-span windscreen adding to the sense that a cat could safely be swung without too much damage to either the car’s interior or the spinning moggie.
In terms of the dashboard, a good salesman would exhort its simplicity and straightforwardness of purpose and design. To me, it looked more like I’d been given the factory demonstration model before anyone had thought to put dials on. There was a speedometer, a petrol gauge, an engine thermostat, an air-conditioning switch, two electric window buttons – and that was pretty much all. The radio and speakers I had secretly been hoping for were nowhere to be found, even after I obstinately performed three or four searches inside the doors and under the steering wheel. Neither was there a cigarette lighter/charging socket, an omission that was to be my undoing on several legs of the trip to come.
I took a moment to contemplate the cheapest car in the world. Costs had indeed been cut. Looking at the little Nano, I had the impression that you couldn’t subtract much more from her and still call her a car. I was already extremely uncomfortable with the absence of a passenger-side mirror, and was still fairly stumped as to exactly where the engine could be, as having taken down the rear backrest I found only a small storage space instead of the expected motor.
I sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key. The elusive engine rumbled into life from somewhere behind me and I pushed down on the accelerator to give it a few revs. It growled back with a satisfying snarl, signalling that all was in order and she was ready to go. Relief: against the odds, I’d bought a car in India that I’d never seen before, and it appeared to work. And that was all that mattered. You could put as many ribbons and bells on a car as you like (or not, in this case) in the form of heated leather seats, a mahogany dashboard, built-in GPS, even a flux capacitor. But what was most important was that it ran, and that it would get me from my point of departure – Mumbai – to my intended destination – Mumbai – via a series of exploits all around the country. I had most definitely scored.
‘Why are you buying this car?’ Puran asked me with disarming frankness as he took an inaugural photograph of me standing proudly next to the Nano, one proprietary hand placed on her rear haunch.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nobody is buying this Tata Nano,’ he said with confidence. ‘Driving it on the highways is very dangerous.’
I couldn’t believe I was hearing these words from a man who minutes earlier could have passed for James Bond’s driving stunt double. He continued, ‘Ma’am, if you crash on the highways in the Nano, you will not be going to hospital. You will be going straight to heaven.’
I shot him a look of annoyance, which must have more truthfully resembled an expression of abject terror, as he immediately followed up with a vindication, mumbling something about how brave I was.
Still, the line between brave and gormless is a thin one. In order to err well on the side that would maximize my chances of survival, I figured I needed to swallow my pride and take some tips from the pros. I handed Puran the Nano keys and asked him to show me how it was done. He couldn’t have looked happier had I gifted him a gold-plated Ferrari occupied by a trio of beauty queens. He grabbed the keys out of my hand and installed himself in the driver’s seat with a sombre sense of authority. In a flash, his consternations about the car’s safety evaporated and were replaced by a boyish euphoria.
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�Ma’am, it’s my first time driving a Nano,’ he beamed as he turned on the engine.
I got in the passenger side and we reentered the chaos of Mumbai. Puran handled the car perfectly, thrusting the gear stick around and performing all manner of sharp U-turns and overtaking, while beating out a short tattoo on the horn to accompany each move. At one point we stopped at a traffic light and got a taste of the Nano’s superstar status, becoming the source of intense scrutiny to the other road users gathered around us.
Not used to being the centre of attention, Puran shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Ma’am, everybody looking,’ he said, staring with intense will at the red lights up ahead.
Within the space of ten minutes, we had swerved, ducked, blown our horn and been honked at more times than I could count. And yet Puran executed all these manoeuvres with impressive ease. He’d give a motorbike in front a terrifying rapid-fire blast of the horn before flooring the accelerator to overtake him within inches of hitting an oncoming truck, while simultaneously pointing out to me the rows of leather shops on the outskirts of the infamous Dharavi slum, where he used to work before he landed a job as a company chauffeur.
Mumbai’s drivers, I concluded, had to be stout-hearted mini-Buddhas. Only a Zen-like ability to detach oneself from this chaos, coupled with the reflex capacity of a Shaolin monk, could pull someone like Puran through years of sitting behind the wheel. And yet, if unflappability was the requisite for professional road users here, then where the heck was all this aggression coming from?
From the safety of my bed that night, far from the revs and horns and exhaust fumes of the great urban road beast outside, I decided that only hard facts could comfort and reassure me. As enchanted as I was at the prospect of discovering India by car, I had no intention of doing so at the cost of my life. I went online to try to find a silver lining in the cloud of my potential annihilation.