When a friend mentioned to me the other day that he can’t stand women drivers, it got me thinking. A few years ago, very rarely would the male counterpart allow women to touch their precious cars. It was clearly a defined honour to sit next to them while they drove. I remember my dad landing in hospital with a stroke. Mom said he would never drive our car again. I always loved that old Morris car of ours with its leafy green colour, black cute fenders, and brown seat covers. I remember the number too MRZ 1660. For so many years, I had begged dad’s permission to drive the car and now I was actually being told to learn driving. Twenty days later I was a certified driver and proudly walked into the hospital and stuck the licence under dad’s nose. Two days later, dad was back behind the wheel, driving an angry me. One day he relented and early morning we drove out to an unused road, with me on the wheel and continuous grilling on which gear to use and when to brake by of course ,dad. That did it, I was not going to ask dad for the car anymore, and who was happier? naturally him. The licence lay in my cupboard for years, my first and last ambition seething in my heart, a car of my own. One day, many years after marriage, we bought our first car. I was queen at last of my dream and refused to let my husband drive me around as he grumbled many a years away.
I had proved all the men in my life wrong, I was good and real good. I was the safest person to have on the road. Never mind that at times, I use hand signals instead of using the indicators, drove at a tortoise pace occasionally, admired the scenery on the way, decided dinner menus in my head, causing blood pressure to drivers behind me always, never looking left or right. So what if I was always singing whilst driving or enjoying the rain pouring in. And did I talk to myself, of course I did that too!!
But no one ever knew the real me. No way, for if the road was empty then I would speed faster than any race driver. I sing louder than ever, maneuvering like a maniac, raise a fist at cab drivers, never understanding why they cruise in the middle of the road always. And what can I say about the male counterpart talking into their mobiles, flicking their locks, admiring their faces in the rear mirror until they spot me, a woman driver behind. Well! Then suddenly it’s a clash of titans, for suddenly the male counterpart breaks out of his slumber, drops his mobile, drops a few four letter words, steps on the gas and whizzes past content on having outdone “the woman”. It’s another thing that as soon as he slumbers again, I have zipped past a shocked face never to be caught again on the wrong foot.
Besides who said speed and control belongs to the males? Women have known to conquer space and rule the world – then who dare question us the Jhansi Ki Ranis, on the road. We just let them be happy, because that very same insufferable out there will have to go come home at the end of the day to bow to the real master, the women in their homes..
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