I slammed the door behind me. It made quite a deafening sound. I knew straightaway that my dads maruti 800 would have been much hurt by my action. But I didn’t turn back; as this was not the time to show ones repentance. A blink later I heard an equally loud bang. Poor maruti,, but Whos that?? I turned my head over. The dump headed me should have expected it. It was my one and only mom.
I had a glance at her and without returning the gaze she moved into home. While all this happened patta also exited and the way he closed the door would have made the car love him back. A visibly worn out patta came close by and remarked about the wonderful time he had for the last one hour with us. Understandably perplexed he asked the same archaic question.
Hmm..da anandae.. One doubt... Who was driving... you or your mom?
A sense of Dejavu prevailed. It was not the first time, nor was it the second, third or fourth time that am hearing this question. I was probably loosing the count. I managed to answer it with the usual clueless, non committal, angled face “I don’t know” emoticon.
All this happened a few yrs ago, when the traffic policemen at all junctions constantly wanted me to prove my age.
Now it’s mostly during my homey days that I get a chance to be behind the wheels. And the sleek M800 still remains the chosen one. I brand myself as an average driver with a fair dose of impulsiveness. Since the vacations to home are mostly programmed around family travels, Mom unfailingly forms a prominent part of my entourage. Once u crank the carr and revs up, its game on for mom. She effortlessly adores the role of a virtual driver. I might be the one physically steering, clutching, gearing, braking and speeding, but many including I feel that psychologically it’s my mom who is running the show.
When I venture onto some serious driving, mom too changes gears and flags off her own running commentary. The bumps ahead, the junctions on the way, the irate KSRTC coming round the corner, the probabilities of the child on the brink of the road to cross over and on a whole, all details are minutely covered and transduced to me. She also takes out her time to decipher the wacky roadside PWD signs for me (for me many look tuffer than da vinci codes).If even after all her sensible interventions if I spill out any bad move, A default “isss” sound (ooze in some air into ur opened lip, closed teeth, mouth) comes out. It poignantly points out that I had done something extremely erratic and risky. Even if am having a full housed car, I feel its only mom whos with me. the rest of the pack, completely poised, would be indulged in their own mini businesses. Restlessness in her grows if the roads are empty and there aren’t any signboards to crack. If this situation persists she rolls out selected moral trivia inherited from my granny, like “monae..slow and steady wins the race”. Graany for her part gives this piece of advice even now to my 50 something uncles.
My dad, an ace driver now, never falls into the category of a natural one. I remember the early days of my dads driving. It took him Half a year, a gentle clampdown of an advocates wall, quarter dozen trainers and a mighty heart to extract the roadie out of him. Nearly half, and in my moms eyes full responsibility, for my dads dyslexic learning curve was related to me. Hours after I was born, dad in high spirits had a close call on his life, as he nearly met with an accident. He came out of the episode unhurt, but was completely shaken and quit driving on the same day. The shock somehow stayed with him for 20 yrs. But fortunately even with these dubious records and a near total mediocre driving style he never goes thru any driving pressures from my mom. When he drives, mom never looks anywhere close to what I had seen her during my driving. She even settles for a peaceful doze. I had been at many times startled by the kind of double standards (harsh) my mother superior portrays.
Why this indifference, both of us drive the same vehicle and the risks on a base scale for anyone driving on the Indian roads are the same. Moreover I have been lucky enough not to be registered to an accident on my car yet (touchwood).. Then why?? When the ‘iss’ sound gets unbearable I let loose some red herrings. “Mom, u well know I am a no. 8, I drive a M800, and the 2240 punched in the no. plate doesnt add upto 9 either. So numerologically I am lucky with the car. Hence never worry abt anything”. Even these superfluous statements aren’t a meaty divergence for my mom. Later more control from her ensures the near crack of my ego and I vent out my displeasure in very rude ways. At the end of the travel our moods get so erratic that the climax sounds the way it turned out at the start. Patta, now languishing in US, for his part will be replaced by someone else and the question inadvertently pops out: Who was driving u or ur mom??
It was only recently I started Pondering more on this issue(thxx to blink, tipping point, freaknomics etc) I thought there was more than just my driving here. Mom’s authoritative stand was not in many ways due to my driving incompetence or habits. She never used to go onto the tech things of my driving. In a way even she believes that am ok technically with driving. It was more driven by her maternal instincts. In addition to a certain level of latent anxiety, She was after all unmindfully (even if excessively) playing the role of a protective and a helping mom. Her timely prompts was her own way of easing up and decoding the front situations to me. It might on first hand feel irritating and highly unwanted but had on majority of occasions tremendously helped me. She was unconsciously showing me the care and affection she has for me. she believes her stakes on my well being are very high and that makes her come out with the cautionary issses”, whenever I dared to cross the limits.
Dad on the other hand has loads of trust of mom. She knows that dad can effortlessly bail her out in whatever precarious situation they end up in. Even the so called wall ramming episode went of fine as the advocate turned out to be a known figure to my dad. (The Perpendicularity disturbance of the advocate’s wall still stands testimonial for his learning days.) So it’s unconsciously the trust element that’s working out for my dad. At the end it’s even for both of us. We were only witnessing the different facets of a lady who is playing knowingly and unknowingly the different roles of womanhood in her life.
Even though I think I know the philosophical bends driving my mother, I am sure we both may again get out of the car completely at unease with each other. That’s might well be the beauty of this relationship. Her constant appraisal of my driving and on various other life issues makes me at times completely mad at her. Still I know from the bottom of my heart that she is with her interventions only making my journey through life all the more easy. For my case, I believe even schumi would be having an earful if he is driving with his mom as Mothers tend to be universally generic.
P.S. this post is for my mom who will be turning a year younger this Dec 7th. For all those whose mothers don’t yell at u when u drive and when u live. Congrats. Ur moms have grt trust on ur abilities and believes that u r fit for yourself.
