Some of the best things I have learnt have come from questions, not answers. And some of the most impressionable people in my life have asked me some of the best questions. Greatest hits from this album include classics such as, “Do you think she likes me?”, “Are you sure you won’t fall if you ride the bike sitting backwards down the hill?”, “Were you just laughing at her joke more than mine?”. Incidentally, and always regretfully, I answered all those questions as just “Yes”. Then there are the best interrogators I’ve ever met in my life — my parents. Have you ever been asked a rhetorical question that makes you fundamentally question your own intellect and existence on a Darwinian level? Meet my dad.

They said you liked xkcd, so I made you some xkcd.

Having lived most of our lives in the most densely populated city in the world, driving is a skill my family has avoided like the plague. A car to get around Bombay is the logical equivalent of buying a Boeing 747 to get groceries from Walmart. You’ll burn a lot of fuel, people will honk incessantly at you and when you finally reach, you’d want to kill yourself. So breaking the news over Skype was rather difficult to my pragmatic and critical parents.

Me: I bought a sports car! It’s so fast! It has 295 bhp and twi…

Dad: How much was it?

Me: (mumbling) Around “X”

Dad: How much was Maru’s sedan?

Me: (more mumbling) “X/2”.

Mom: Is it a two seater? Looks like a two seater..

Me: Yeah! It has leather sports seats that have like in built heate…

Mom: And Maru’s car has 4 seats?

Me: Yes.

*Intense, pregnant silence*

Dad: So you’ve bought half the car for twice the money?

*Existential crisis*

After crying myself to sleep after severe self doubt and buyer’s (father’s) remorse, I told myself, “They’d know it when they see it.” And I was right. Sort of. Earlier this year, they came down to visit me and I had to welcome them at the airport with a close contender for the most joyless car in the world, a rental Hyundai Elantra. But as soon as we reached the parking lot, my mom and my sister were completely smitten by the tiny little Porsche. And I gladly took them out for a spin, I’d even practiced my standard monologue about the car the day before. And in the beginning I’d go, “Is it ok if I go a bit fast?” to which Mom replied,”Just try not to hit anything.”. And in the end, I’d be repaid by flush, beaming faces. Well, almost. Dad just had one thing to say, “It’s kinda loud, isn’t it?”. Sigh.

Mothers are the most polar species in the world, and Indian mothers are the best at it. They would justify anything and everything their wards did, even if his name was Adolf Hitler. “Oh it’s not military aggression, he’s just acquiring new assets and diversifying his real estate. Land has become so expensive these days. Nobody says anything to those brats Benito and Hirohito, ha? Why you hounding my son?” My mom defends my idiotic escapades right until she can speculate some reasonable explanation behind my behavior. After that, it is full on guerrilla warfare. Don’t catch my drift? Allow me to explain. In a typical Indian household, alcohol and girlfriends have more or less very similar status. You can only think about it after you’re 21, you will probably smell of it and it demands 80% of your monthly allowance. Ever since I’ve turned 25, I’ve been pushed and prodded towards “finding a girl” that checks all the boxes. As you already know, owing to my superior playboy skills, this hasn’t been a fruitful endeavor. But we never speak about marriage at home. Unless. There is some relative visiting us and since all Indian relatives are the matrimonial equivalent of Tinder, they want to know when I’m getting matched. And this is when my mother’s implied subtlety comes into play, “Oh we want him to get a good, homely Hindu girl who’s preferably a mallu but he’s gone and bought a very fast, two seater sports car which means he’s not interested on starting family or anything.” Notice how she has indirectly laid down all her daughter-in-law conditions and extrapolated and questioned my life choices while simultaneously praising the car. True genius.

Moms wear many hats. Mine wears a beret, a deerstalker and a Gandhi cap.

For all the unrelenting stubbornness that was 15 year old me, I now agree with my parents that I deserved to be whacked and kept in line. As my history teacher would say, “The strictest parents make the best liars and the best liars are the ones who have the most fun”. But there is a very distinct kind of happiness when someone you love finds joy in something you enjoy. Especially if they know nothing about it. My dad didn’t have the slightest inkling of the very existence of a brand named Porsche. I know my mom brags about my car to everyone she knows, because it’s the first thing any of her friends ask me about. I owe everything to them and I wouldn’t have anything to write about every Friday night, if it weren’t for them. And in turn, I’d like to think, I’m doing my tiny bit by putting a smile on their face, as we rev up to 5000 rpm and careen down the freeway.

Zee customary fabulous photo with dad being fabulous with zee katana.

<This is part of a small series of posts I’ve been meaning to write about my (mis)adventures with my car. It is not in any way supposed to be pompous, grandiose and other synonyms. It’s something unique and I get asked about the car more than I’m asked about myself, so I thought I’d make it a series.>