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D.I.B - The rest of the story

As I was returning from my firm this evening (woo hoo! weekend !), I managed to brake the clutch wire and accelerated sluggishly towards our favourite mechanic shop. While my father's camaraderie with the mechanics is legendary and quite admirable, I distrust them from the bottom of my heart. I think every pore of my face screams out 'Iam ignorant about your profession' and even the most greased up mundu is able to pick up the signal. The scooter spluttered, jerked and halted near the shed. In my most baritone and authoritative voice, I commanded (read requested), "Ye clutch wire change karna hai ...growl growl". As the minutes passed, I began to ponder. What childhood trauma could have possibly affected me this badly ? How can I be so averse to this race, this masculine profession of nuts and bolts. Have some experiences etched my grey cells forever ? 6 bold letters flashed in front of my eyes - DIB 342

As a dedication to the clunks of the mechanics of the universe , I shall focus solely on the auditory aspects of our ex-car. Some of these were duly incorporated in our family lingo. If you think I am exuding family pride right now, think again.


Let me first get into the basics of how a car engine works. A battery sits on the right side (or the left), whose terminals should not be caressed at the same time. Towards the front end lies the radiator, which has a fan. The fan rotates, but for some reason that air isn't thrown towards the passengers (some designer has got his fundaas topsy-turvy. idiots). Between these two components lies the ENGINE. That's it. It is that simple. A lot of pipes run criss-cross. But explaining that is beyond the scope of this blog.

In the good old days, the car used to run on petrol. Quite often, the petrol would refuse to complete its journey to the ENGINE. Post-halt, Daddy would open up the creaky bonnet and following a swift algorithm of suck-spit, forcing the petrol to resume its flow. This was followed by the slamming of the ENGINE's top. A distinct metallic and musical sound we proudly and loudly called Thump-Thump. And then ...maybe..maybe..the car would start again...


The door windows were quite a marvel - possibly second-hand maal from Hitler's tanks. Layers of iron - rusted, dented, painted (SKY BLUE!). Daddy used to urge us to be gentle with the doors. That word was meaningless to us. It'd require a minimum of three slams before some malleable (and ductile) metal would yield and the door would appear closed. The windows were independent entities and would rarely respond to their respective handles. Two of them weren't designed to descend completely, the other two wouldn't do so. The handles would often fall off and reach some unreachable corner of the floor (murphy's law! again!).

A super-true sad story - On one such stormy night, a cat managed to sneak in and do a little potty-business in the car. The next day, the odour wouldn't leave us, in spite of the open windows. One of our neighbours requested a ride to the MH. It was a short ride. Diplomatic mum lips and concealed closed noses made the journey seem a little longer. I don't remember if we were dealing with just cat-shit, or a homogenous stench of L.P.G and potty. The memories are slowly fading away...Thank god !

There are a few more anecdotes, but like a selfish dilli-waala, I am saving them for another blog. week ka quota complete. phew !


  1. i thought i ll leave a comment, but now i can't think of anything after reading that.. well.. nose-talgic incident.


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