Houston, We Have A Condition Here.

I parked the ol' girl 800 right in front of the" tailor aunty's" place. (Have you noticed how we have developed this admirable system of flesh-and-bloodising all humanity? Driver anna, beggar uncle, potato-tomato akka. One wonders if this is the peak of dignity of labour.) Anyway, this is a usual digression from the real story.

Like I was saying before the regular digression, I parked the ol' girl 800 right in front of the tailor aunty's place. Mr. Achar had recently nearly decapitated me for causing a 10 micrometer scratch on the right-front side of the car; so I was extra careful with the parking. (In case you are curious, it was the usual maa (Mrs. Achar) sentiment that had saved the nivea-coated self skin.)

I performed the usual in 2 seconds.
Hand-break : check
regular gear : check
lights : check
lock&key : check.
Internal check Done. Got out.

Surrounding thorny bushes : negative
aimless playing primary school children : negative
excessive direct sunlight : negative.
Good. All clear.

So, well. I was dressed in that purple chudidhar that thankfully hid the newly acquired fat. Mother had forced me into wearing Little gold jewelery; she thinks I have reached an age where I should start treating gold as 'real' jewelery. For some reason, she did not approve of the gold-colored sandals. They are too, ahem, she thought.The unwanted gold on body did not dampen my spirit, though.

The morning was so typically Bengloorish, the weeds in empty sites so green and clean, the non-degradable polythene bags on roads all uniformly white, the occasional dog poop - there wasn't anything that could put down the spring in my walk. There was a threat of rain, but no real rain. My favorite kind of rain, this was.

I climbed up the slow steps of the tailor aunty's house. There was a strong wind. The Wordsworth moment was building up itself. My right eye caught an unusual motion in the corner. I happened to turn. After a horror-stricken nano-second I saw the Achar 800 cheerfully running down the road.

The bags just fell out of my hand, I ran down the steps, the utility-less golden sandals thrown behind. I ran for my life. No, really, my life. I knew the father wouldn't think twice before separating my head from the rest of the body if anything happened to the fancy Maruti. I sweat (the same sweat that refused to show one drop of itself even after 4 kms of brisk walking). The heart was pounding in my mouth, the stomach had fallen. In short, the anatomy was screwed up.

I closed in on the car - frantically looking for human presence. Where were all the auto annas, worker annas and driver uncles?? Huh? Where are you people when I need you? I am always sweet and non-bargaining. I am a woker-supporting socialist who simply doesnt argue with your fees. Where are you all when my car's running down slope with NO ONE inside it??

I screamed "stop! stop!". This, predictably, dint help too much. I ran and hugged the car bum and tried to create a physical resistance. After 2 seconds, the pace reduced. Reduced enough for me to pick up a nearby brick piece and keep it as a temporary stop behind the wheels.

Did you know that hand-breaks aren't good enough for real slopes? Should I be carrying bricks everywhere I go in the Dickie? Why the hell is it an 'automobile' if it can't stay 'autostationary'?

This, my friend, is one of those rare moments when one is glad to be riding a Maruti 800 and nothing bigger.