RoadShow

Phew.

For the first time since forever, I'm actually a teeny weeny bit glad to be back home. Allow me to elaborate.

It all started last Sunday, when my mother decided to accompany me to Bangalore, a city that's as close to my heart as it is accessible. Mother dearest went one step further and opted to drive down(needless to say, with our man friday, the driver). My financial state of affairs being further down than the doldrums even, I was glad for the all-expense paid trip. And so it was planned, and scheduled, and suitcases were packed accordingly, with extras thrown into paper bags, since we were, after all, traveling in our own car.

All hell broke loose when my grandmother, who was supposed to tag along as well, felt like opting out of the roadtrip, triggering all kinds of reactions from her daughter. A flurry of phone calls later, nothing had been resolved, save for the momentary mutual hatred between mother and daughter, each feeling that the other was being terribly unfair. Of course, I as official grand daughter, added my twopence worth, and did my fair share of ranting and sulking, claiming that I'd much rather have taken the train. Thankfully no one called my bluff.

Eventually, grandmother was coaxed and cajoled by all her sons to make peace with her only daughter and she grudgingly agreed to come along. Mother then decided that she couldn't go empty-handed. So she stayed up until 3 a.m. making some sort of halwa that I wasn't allowed to pinch because it was for the 'hosts'. Of course everyone knows what happens when Mother decides to venture on a midnight foray into the kitchen. The morning smells divine, yes, but mother mopes and moans till noon the next day.

So it came to pass that we who were to get a headstart on the sun, well, let's just say that the sun had the last laugh. My other grandmother was invited at the last minute, and full credit must be given to my aunt who had her packed, powdered and ready to go much before all of us. I must add that grandma 2 is adorable in every which way, but of late, has been losing her grip on an erstwhile sharp as a razor memory. At this point, it might be helpful to add that grandma 1 has her memory intact, but not her hips, and needs a walker to ferry herself from place to place. Still, they are both strong, determined women, from the WWII era, and with that diversion sorted out, I'll get on with the story.

The man friday was definitely not smiling when we finally trooped down to the car. He muttered to himself, since ranting was not an option, and we started off. The first hour or so went along rather smoothly, with us feeling super smug about the excellent time we were making with our wonderful car. Then as it always happens with my life, things began to unravel.

Man friday's muttering grew noticeably more audible, always a bad sign, and the air-conditioning seemed to be dying a slow, painful(for us in the backseat) death. After a bit of sputtering and praying(mother and grandmas 1&2 are staunch Catholics), we were duly informed that our wonderful, comfy car would not go any further because its delicate insides were being burned to death on the merciless highway.

We were in shock, and in two minutes flat, I was bathing in my own sweat, that's how ridiculously hot it was out there. When I asked about the radiator, man friday shot me a dirty look, as if to say- hello, im not such an incompetent that I don't check the radiator before taking off, this is what happens when you don't leave early in the morning! I shrank back into my sauna seat, and looked around for some semblance of shade while mother whipped out her phone and proceeded to make a series of SOS calls to everyone on her phone directory.

A minute later, having spotted a lone tree just off the highway, I seated myself on the little wall that ran the length of the road. The breeze was delightful, and frankly, I'd just about had it with the combined nostalgic recollections of 3 post-menopausal women, one of whom took to repeating things every couple of minutes(grandma 2) although I love them dearly and know that someday I shall turn into a frightful combination of all 3, since I am a direct descendant and all that.

At that point, a man in a turban magically appeared. He was a local furtune-teller and made a grab at my hand. I blushed dutifully, and then let the old man do his thing. He took a long look, and said a lot of things which I didn't understand. The essence of his reading was translated by man friday, and it was simply this-that I should've been born a man.

Feeling robbed of my effeminate charms(whatever little I thought I possessed), I turned my attention to the fields below. But the fortune-teller wasn't letting my hand go until I'd contributed a bit to his own fortunes. An argument ensued, with the grandmas, who obviously still calculate WWII style, feeling that 2 rupees would be a good enough fee. Mother was upset at this breach of christian faith and didn't want to give him any money at all. Frustrated, I dug out my wallet and pulled out the first note I saw, which seemed to make the fortune-teller happy, but earned me the scorn of everyone else.

After a couple of hours of sunning ourselves, we had consumed enough liquid for me to start hunting for an appropriate pee-stop for grandma 2. We hobbled along, down the road, to a piece of wall which just sat in the middle of a field, not joining or holding up anything. It had been built just so us city-types could take refuge behind it, I thought gratefully. On the way back up, grandma 2 gleefully picked up bits of sweet tamarind, and we sucked on a piece that hadn't rotted yet.

By this time, mother's SOS calls had paid off and a white ambassador was despatched to rescue us, along with a mechanic to rescue the car. We went our separate ways, leaving car and man friday behind to be towed back home, while our amabssador ambled along to Bangalore.

One thing though, no one had taken into account how slow this car was actually was. My mother, in her desperation, decided that it was a conspiracy to make her pay the driver extra. This despite me pointing out to her that she was paying him per kilometre, not per hour. Still, the amby was air-conditioned, the sky had turned dusky pink, and we were relieved to be on our way again.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, save for the need for speed, and a coffee break at a place called 'Darling Bakery'. How absolutely darling is that? I bought a load of quaint cream cakes which no one, including myself, ate.

I wish I could say that we had a happy ending. But no, like a nursery rhyme, we went round and round in circles on the ring road, my mother and I yelling at each other or to the driver, each grandma bursting into a fit of hysterical laughter at periodic intervals. As a result, I missed the mehndi function I was to attend, my mother and grandmas 1&2 missed the the golden wedding function they were to attend(despite grandma 1's bold decision to change into her fancy clothes while the driver was at the checkpost) and the purpose of our long and arduous journey remained unfulfilled.

Tired, hungry and angry, I made my way to my friends place, and was duly handed a glass of Roohafza with cold milk, to soothe my frazzled nerves. It was delicious, and after I'd calmed down, I called grandma 1 to see how they were doing. I asked her if she was ok after the long trip, and she said she enjoyed the drive immensely, and was only sad that she missed her brother's golden wedding, because fifty years ago, she'd missed his actual wedding as well, and she thought that making it to the golden wedding would make it up somehow.

I don't know why exactly, but that managed to make me feel ashamed of myself and proud of them, those wonderful women who were obviously much better-equipped to handle life's potholes than I could ever hope to be. And what was I, 1/4th their age, with every single bone in good working condition?

I do hope that when I'm 80+, on a roadtrip with my grandkids and the car stalls in the middle of nowhere, I'm half as much of a rockstar as my grandmas were that day.

Still, phew.