Driven to new perspectives

JS Raghavan

Thirty years back, the organisation that employed me felt I should be provided with a car befitting the exalted position to which I was promoted. An allowance was sanctioned for its maintenance, like fuel, periodic repairs, insurance and such, including the remuneration of the driver. The car was to be with me round the clock.

On the day I travelled home in the company’s car, my daughter received me at the parking of our apartment with stars in her eyes. ‘It is an Amby!’ she squealed. The driver behind the wheel was Thambi, a man from the South, pushing 50, serving as a spare driver, like a 12th man in a cricket team, a man of very few words, communicating with gestures and grunts.

He always received the car keys obsequiously from me like a devotee and vamoosed like a well-oiled genie. His driving of the car was a treat. Though it was an old car, he gave an impression as if he was taxiing a jetliner on the tarmac gracefully. His only query on our trip to the office would be whether we should branch off to the petrol bunk to ‘fill her up’. No words would be wasted. Near the petrol bunk, he would ponderously turn his head to his left to get to know and respond to my command by raising his eyes to the rear-view mirror and drive straight or turn left into the bunk. All like a pantomime show!

As is with most people from God’s own country, he had his eyes trained on the Gulf and took off one day, leaving me in the lurch. The next one who took over the wheel was a sprightly youngster who seemed to dislike the space under the accelerator and was ever ready to hit the board. Even before I closed the door fully, he would send the vehicle lurching forward. Mercifully, his tenure came to an abrupt end as he had a plum offer from an upscale hospital to drive their ambulance.

The next one who followed was a veteran who had worked for the crème de la crème of filmdom. He had a fund of salacious narratives concerning the nocturnal movements of the passengers inside. Lo and behold, one day an actress irked by his revelations that tormented her, set her beau on him, who pummelled him during a dark night when he came out of his house.

But the star driver who worked with me for 25 years was Krishnan. He never stayed away from the car for more than five minutes and kept polishing it like a socialite would do her Blue Jager every now and then. He felt sitting before me would be disrespectful. ‘Are you not sitting in the front seat while driving me? If that is disrespectful, why don’t you drive standing?’ I asked. He sniggered politely, beaten by my logic, but gave an impression of standing though he sat and drove.

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