Farewell, My Lovely

Needless to say, few people ever get within a mile of their dreams. If one is lucky, one might actually spot one in cold metal, as it roars down the road, leaving a dust trail behind. But then, reality rarely ever stops anyone from dreaming.

My best friend and classmate, Ashok, dreamt of the Harley Davidson with its deep throated roar that he had seen Marlon Brando ride into the sunset in The Wild One. Ravi, down the road from my house, paid homage every morning to the image of a silver Porsche 911 occupying pride of place on his bedroom wall. Sunil, my chess partner, of course, lusted for a truly exotic hulk. A Studillac a Studebaker fitted with a V-8 Cadillac engine. (Felix Leiter drove James Bond in one in Diamonds are Forever.)

 

My own dream, of course, was far more ordinary a red convertible with a black hood, which one could ride topless through the highways, with the wind running through the hair and the sun on the face, as the old number goes. I was not fussy I did not quibble over details like make, engine size, acceleration and torque. Of course, it would have been nice if the package came in the shape of a true sportster like the Truimph TR-4. But I was ready to settle for considerably less provided it was red, with a black hood and a convertible.

I was also exceptionally lucky. I actually knew a person in town who owned a red and black Triumph convertible (a TR-2). And I knew him well enough to cadge a few rides, though I never once got my hands on the wheel.

But more important, shortly after my eighteenth birthday, I actually became the proud possessor of a reasonable substitute for my dream. It was red, it was convertible, and it sported a black hood. It was no speedy sportscar but a 1949 Morris 10. And for ten long years of alternate love and frustration, pride and embarrasment in equal proportions, I remained its owner.

One autumn morning in 1982, I woke up to find the Morris parked behind the family Ambassador in the driveway. It was not red and black yet it sported a somewhat shabby white paintwork, peeling at the joints. But it did have a black canvas hood. All it needed was some fresh warpaint and regular baths to become as handsome a car as ever graced the streets of Jalandhar.

How did it come to be on my driveway? It was not much of a mystery. My father, who had as much fondness for ladies of uncertain vintage as I did, had spotted it under a tree in Ambala during his tour. He had promptly despatched his driver to enquire about its owner. And after meeting the worthy, a landlord fallen on bad times, had picked up the car for the grand sum of Rs 7,500. The deal had been struck, cash paid, and he had driven the Ambassador back to Jalandhar keeping a stern eye on his rearview mirror to see that the driver was handling his new (old?) possession with the care it needed.

After just one look, my mother refused to have anything to do with my fathers new find. And that was how I was handed the keys with just a trace of envy. And I became, thus, the proud possessor of Bo (I had just finished seeing 10) even before I had got my drivers licence.

I had worked that summer, and had a few thousand squirrelled away for a rainy day. And a bit of borrowing from my sister ensured that I had enough money to carry out the immediate work necessary on Bo. It was nothing much. A complete servicing, a fresh set of spark plugs, a change of oil, a new battery and a retreaded tyre. And of course, a proper paint job turning her into burnt kiln red.

It turned heads, wherever it went. And it went like a stately lady, silently chewing up kilometres and giving way disdainfully to brasher upstarts like Premier Padminis, which couldnt resist the urge of overtaking her.

And it was Bo who made sure that my social life moved into high gear, and that I never lacked a date throughout the rest of my stint in college and university.

It was a different matter that I also lost several dates because of her. Girls will be girls, and most baulked at pushing Bo on those cold wintry nights when I needed a bit of help starting her up. And of course, one of them never spoke to me again because, having got the hood down, I couldnt get it back in place when a sudden downpour surprised us.

But then, Bo more than compensated for those rare occasions. And it gave sterling service. Its finest hour came when it was pressed into service during Holi by the Jalandhar Model Town gang. We wiped out our rivals, who were cruising the streets, three per Yezdi bike. It was no match. Bo, with her hood down, carried seven of us, and all our buckets and balloons of ammunition. The motorcycle raiders could carry only limited weaponry.

It was like a tank taking on mounted infantry. What Bo lacked in manoeuvrability, she more than made up in firepower. And by evening, we were the acknowledged champs.

But Bo did more than that for me. It labelled me forever as a person who dared to stay away from the herds. Others had mundane, contemporary models of bikes and cars. No one had another Morris 10 even in hard top variation.

Bo was with me when we shifted first to Jaipur, and then Delhi. In the capital, the Jama Masjid flea market allowed me to find many of the original spares (cannibalised from Bos less fortunate sisters) and build a truly original car. Bo also continued turning heads wherever she went even though she was in her forties by then.

Unfortunately, as she aged, Bo also developed more expensive tastes. And numerous ailments, despite the attention of the best old mechanics in Delhi. And as the supply of derelict Morrises to be stripped for parts became difficult even for the Jama Masjid dealers, I found myself travelling ever further to look for parts. In some cases, it was impossible to get Morris originals and I had to use whatever substitute I could lay my hands on. The carburettor, for example, cracked one day. And in the absence of any better substitute, I had to settle for a Standard Herald carburettor. (It ran just fine, in fact, faster, though it made more noise and guzzled up more fuel.)

Unfortunately though, Bos tastes kept growing far more expensive than the raises I was getting in my first job. And soon, I was deeply in the hock with my family, as I borrowed to meet her insatiable demands. But it was clear even then that I could not keep her forever. And one December day in 1992, I finally had to let go of her. She had cracked her gear box, and since no Morris originals were readily available, one needed a replica to be fashioned from fresh metal.

It was more than I could afford. With a heavy heart, I gave her away to one of my rich friends who had coveted her for long. I have since then possessed two Premier Padminis and a Maruti in succession. But there are certain things you never quite forget. And first love is one of them.