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Missives from Indian Streets
I've had two learners licenses expire on me so far. I'd like to argue, if pressed, that I was too busy to give the driving exam at the end, with other, far more important medical exams pressing. The truth is I was simply too lazy.
But now, finding myself in actual need of one, since the NHS accepts "sorry boss, dunno how" as a poor excuse for showing up late to an emergency, I paid a good chunk of my own salary to one of the driving instructors at one of the more reputable companies around (they own a car brand, though they were mildly put out because I made it clear I wasn't a prospective customer).
The last two times, my dad coughed up the change, but this time, both actual enthusiasm and hard cash were transferred from my far more empty wallet. You'd think his modestly justified annoyance at me having wasted the money before would be outweighed by paternal pride and affection at his son adding more alphabet soup behind his name, but alas.
Up till this point, my instructors had been bad, to put it lightly. And the extent of my experience on the road was driving through quiet suburban streets and doing my best to weave through parked cars and avoid the odd cow or pedestrian.
This time, well, I got what I paid for. Far better tutors, 5 whole lessons in a simulator running Windows 10 but using software probably written in the early 2000s. Unfortunately, today I braved the midday sun in an exceedingly long walk to the motor training school (for obvious reasons I can't drive there) , I can't call myself an Englishman quite yet, but mad dog? The heatstroke left me panting.
To my chagrin, it turned out that my last simulator class was supposedly a two-in-one affair, and they expected me to hit the road again, for the first time in several years.
At high noon. On the main road carrying half the city's traffic, a fucking arterial line spewing motor oil and NO2 emissions, a far cry from the sedate streets I feel quarter comfortable in.
I didn't let on that my inner self was kicking and screaming, and followed the instructor to the awaiting training car with barely repressed terror.
It wasn't that bad. The car, that is. No obvious dents, the air conditioning and power steering worked, a far cry from the broken down beater they'd seen fit to hand me at the previous place.
The driving? Talk about being thrown in the deep end. I swear I don't feel that level of hyperfocus even the odd time I'm dragged in for a surgery. Because after all, what's the worst that could happen there? The patient doesn't make it. Whereas I'm too cute to die, and I have a lot to live for.
Miraculously, despite hitting 55 km/h on some of the busiest roads I've had the misfortune of seeing, I made it through mostly unscathed, even if the gearbox didn't.
That's it. I'm buying an automatic. I modestly hoped that self driving cars would be common enough that I could always procrastinate learning to drive to the distant future, or preferably never. Sadly the distant future is today, and the odd car that can plausibly be said to drive itself is far outside my budget.
Instead, I'm buying a
Porsche,a Mustang, nah, a plain old horse. Runs off renewable energy. Confuses the meter maids enough that I might get away with it if I can't find free employee parking. Fully self driving, or good enough cruise control and lane keeping to make sure my sorry ass makes it home from the pub.I saw God, today. He was wearing a seat belt. So should you.
Was this in India or in England?
I live in a city where the road rules are decaying every day. Red light? Suggestion? Stop sign? Suggestion. Left turn from the right turn lane on a red light with oncoming traffic? Fuck you get out of my way. Speed limits? Square the number and you get the speed of the average driver.
I hate driving, but the alternative is a bus fill with drug addled obnoxious lowlifes who are one bad look away from starting a fight on a bus. Also they never run on time and are simply inefficient ways to travel.
In India, and I didn't expect the trial by fire would be quite so literal, with how abominably hot it is. It's been consistently in the middle 40s in Celsius, and it's only April.
Trust me, you have no idea the depths of depravity traffic can stoop to, I'm modestly grateful that I'll only be here long enough to become semi-competent at the whole not running people over thing, and thus not have the worst habits ingrained in me. If I can navigate a busy road here and not die on the highways, I'll consider the UK to be a paid vacation.
Whether I'll be a menace to the other people on the streets? Too early to tell, but at least I know they're not that keen on sending me to the ER, my ex works there.
I don't even want to imagine what it's like trying to drive in urban India. Of course, my poor American perception of India is bifurcated between 'enlightened' gurus whose philosophy saves humanity, people living in extreme poverty bathing in cow dung, and the people trying to scam me from call centers.
And here I am, stuck in the middle.
Honestly, it's a miracle more people don't die, but apparently you can get used to anything. Not that I want to get used to this, it seems to give everyone a terminal case of road rage.
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The enlightened gurus are also trying to scam you.
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