In a narrow bylane in the otherwise well laid-out residential area that is Panambilly Nagar in Kochi is a popular playschool. Every morning between 9.15 and 9.30 and every afternoon between 12.30 and 1, there is a curious little act that plays out there. In an almost choreographed sequence, a long line of cars make their way into the lane, park sedately to the left side, drivers drop little children at the playschool that is at the dead end of the lane, turn the mostly small cars and make their exit along the right side. You never see a more patient collection of drivers anywhere. Not only are the cars lined up in orderly fashion, no one honks if a car takes too long to reverse, no one sniggers if a car stalls in the process and certainly no one makes impatient or angry gestures if one car is holding up the rest of the line. Instead, there are patient nods and understanding smiles. The drivers are mostly women, many of them in the process of learning to drive or having recently picked up the skill for the exclusive purpose of dropping their children off to playschool. I happen to be one of them. In a recent post, I had talked about Nisha, my driving instructor and also mentioned that there was a story there that I would share later. That is going to be the crux of this post. The story of my fifth(!) attempt to master the skill of driving.
Early this year, I attended my first ever Litt Fest at Kozhikode. On the warm and windy shores of the Arabian Sea, I listened in rapt attention as K R Meera said, 'the ability to drive has given women in every small town of Kerala a pseudo sense of independence.' She did not elaborate and I am not among those who can put up their hands and say, 'I have a question for you, Madam'. But this for me was one of my most important takeaways from that brilliant smorgasbord of bright minds and brighter thoughts - right up there with Anita Nair saying 'I had to travel alone just to figure out if I had within me the inner resources to keep myself entertained' (that, of course, is worth another post, another time, don't you think?) Women. And driving. Women behind the wheels. Women taking control. Of their mobility and more. Do they all correlate? Don't they? Aren't they supposed to? I suppose it would if your ability to drive is also supported by the liberty to go where you choose to go and when you choose to do it - perhaps the reason why KR Meera felt it was just a false feeling. But more about that later.
I am a bad driver. And this is my fifth attempt to tame this particular beast. Way back when I was 18 and full of fire and decided that I wanted to learn to drive, our trusted old driver Appachan, the hardy Ambassador car and the steep and curvy Kottayam roads led me to beat a hasty retreat. I mean, it took all of my then 46 kgs literally standing on the brake to get that monstrosity to stop (which it often did not and we still have a large crack running through a pillar in the verandah to prove it). Second time round, I joined a local driving school. This time I managed to go so far as to apply for a learner's license. We were about two minutes from my home on our way to the test in the Master's car (driving instructors are popularly called Masters for some reason) when a tyre burst. We were right in front of the steep steps leading up to the renowned Mannanam Church. The Master took that as a bad omen and told me to go home. The license would have to wait. That wait went on for about ten years during which life intervened and learning to drive was pushed to a dusty corner, farther behind than the back of the back burner.
By the time Round three of my career in learning-to-drive happened, I was good and married and living in calm and genteel Trivandrum. This time the bulky Ambassador was replaced by a manageable Maruti 800 and I finally felt like I was (mostly) in control. I also learned that driving with your shoes on was an absolute no-no and that going above second gear would cause you to completely lose control of the car. (I still don't know whether it was that driving school's philosophy or just that particular Master's assessment of the situation leading to his surmise that I was not likely to go too far with this endeavour) Confession: I have driven up and down the entire length of six kilometres from my home to my office in nothing but first and second gear. I shudder to think what would have happened to that car if my driving career was not abruptly halted by my first pregnancy. Four years passed and we had shifted base to Kochi before I touched the steering wheel again. By this time I had completely lost touch with whatever skills I had picked up (which was not a lot) but it was time for my daughter to join playschool and it was going to make life difficult for my writer husband if he had to pick and drop both of us to our respective destinations. Enter Nisha. She came with solid recommendations from colleagues who had started driving their own cars in the recent past. The first thing Nisha did was order me to put my heels back on when I took them off at our first driving lesson. 'But I was told one should not drive in shoes' I informed her. 'How terrible it would look if you were all dressed up and drove yourself somewhere in style and just when everyone is looking at you, you bend down to find your shoes?' she said with a logic that was so disarmingly feminine and accurate that she had my attention. And respect. She did mention also how in most other countries it was not even allowed to drive barefoot. Now I realised what I was lacking with all my driving instructors so far - the woman's perspective. So first Nisha got me to put my heels back on. Then she set me free from the fear of gears. Basically, she did not make me feel inadequate to handle so complex a gadget as a car. A refreshing change from my three previous Masters who felt second gear was as far as a woman driver needs to go and the guy who honked continuously behind me for a good two minutes when my car stalled at a traffic junction, causing me to break out in nervous sweat and got the traffic policeman to abandon his post and come running. He could easily have driven past me on those wide Trivandrum roads but I guess he felt he owed humanity the favour of scaring me off the roads for good. Soon Nisha got me to traverse the dreaded North Overbridge and Edappally. She made me drive alone along MG Road. Finally, finally, I was actually driving! And yet, not quite.
From home to playschool to work and back was about three kilometres in a day. That too in the best laid out residential area in town. Where there was no honking traffic or jostling for parking space. Against Nisha's stringent warnings about limiting myself to Panambilly Nagar, I did just that. Never ventured outside of that comfortable space. Also, I would not drive when it was or dark or when it was raining. Or in peak hours. In a year's time when my daughter joined school and started taking the school bus, I happily parked (badly) my little maroon Alto and did not touch it again for another four years when my second child was ready for the playschool in the lane.
A major change that happened in life at this point was that I quit my job. So it was only fair that I take up the responsibility of chores like picking and dropping my children. To playschool. To Karate and art classes. I diffidently started up the car. It stalled. I couldn't even manage to reverse it out of its stupor of the past four years. Enter Nisha again. She had been amused to get my call. 'You never did venture out of Panambilly Nagar, did you?', she laughed. We started off once more. This time my husband insisted I should get at least fifteen hours straight, on the road, before I quit lessons again (though I strongly felt three was more than enough to 'get back to previous levels of expertise.' 'Exactly!', he said smugly.) Nisha was equally adamant this time. It was almost an affront to her teaching skills that I had fared so badly behind the wheels. Narrow lanes. Heavy traffic. Late evenings. Anything I said I was uncomfortable with, she insisted we do. So fifteen days went by and Nisha said, 'I really don't think there is more to teach. Unless you just start driving everywhere, you will go back to where you started.' 'Are you afraid I will call you again in a few months time?' I asked. 'I really wish you wouldn't have to', she said. 'Don't worry. I am planning on deleting your number altogether so that option doesn't remain.' 'I would prefer it if you didn't. I mean, what if you need to pass it on to someone else?' she asked impishly.
Nisha had, in fact, taught me all she could about driving a car but there is a set of 'hard skills' (as opposed to 'soft skills') that no one can quite teach you. Like how to return an unwarranted glare or not be fazed by incessant honking: two privilege offers specially reserved for women drivers on the roads. Also the judgmental stares of passers-by who have already made up their minds that you are more likely to cause a traffic block than get yourself from Point A to Point B. At some point, when you put your foot down, quite literally, on the brakes and out stare the guy who has entered the main road from a side alley without so much as a honk and thinks he has right of way, you realise you truly have earned the right to be behind a steering wheel. That is also a lesson learned the hard way (many times over).
Being a bad driver means I never did get to experience that 'pseudo sense of independence' that comes with driving. For me, independence was taking a Uber to go shopping solo. Fifth time around I am making sure I don't stick to familiar neighbourhoods. I drive my daughters to art competitions and the movies. Last week I went out with a friend for a movie and on a whim, we drove to Fort Kochi for lunch. As I sat in a quaint little restaurant in Fort Kochi, overlooking an old church where a group of youngsters were busy clicking selfies, I disagreed with KR Meera, just a tiny little bit. Driving my children around had not felt like independence. But a conscious choice to take myself someplace that gave me happiness and satisfaction, on my own terms, in control of my own mobility did indeed feel like independence. Of the real sort.
