Driving in India

When I was home for winter break, I took driving lessons from my father.

One needs a learner’s license (similar to an American learner’s permit) to do this, but because of the pandemic, we did not want to risk death by entering a crowded government office to get it issued.

I started driving before I flew to CU Boulder for school this past August, so resuming after four months in another country meant I was a little out of practice.

In his natural state, my father is a nervous man, and therefore the prospect of supervising me stresses him out and heats his bald head. He explained that anyone could learn to drive a car in a few hours, but driving in a place like New Delhi took far more skill.

New Delhi is a city where lanes exist for decorative purposes only, and the rush hour is a thrilling and dangerous race among tiny cars and motorcycles to be first to reach the gates of the school or workplace. You are at the complete mercy of the skill and good sense, if any, of the other drivers.

But, we were not in New Delhi any more. We had moved out of the city and into an apartment in a high-rise building that stood in the middle of farmland. Unfortunately, my father told me that the people were even more unpredictable on the roads around our new home, and therefore he would have to drive me to an empty field nearby so that I could safely reacquaint myself with the car.

On the way there we were greeted by an unexpected variety of pedestrians.

Blocking half the street was a cow, and when she spotted us she promptly approached the car and proceeded to wipe her nose on my window. Perhaps she expected food – other motorists would have fed her in an act of cattle worship. It is so heartwarming to watch the caring human being right in front of you bring his car to a screeching halt in a 50mph section of highway to feed an animal.

Once our windows were covered with snot, the cow left and we continued to the field. Now the car was mine. As soon as I set off there was a problem. I had to navigate a bumpy surface full of big stones, broken glass and rubble. Not to mention a pair of cricket pitches, mud and a small herd of buffalo.

After I did a few rounds through the area, my father told me to drive out of the field and onto the street. So I passed the buffalo and after clearing a massive pothole, I was on tarmac. Many more potholes and a few right turns later, I found myself on a wide street that had been built for the traffic that would emerge from future high-rises.

“Try and keep to the left”, my father said, but that was a bit difficult because the left lane was blocked by a pair of romping dogs and a police barricade that I can only presume had been installed as a joke. This was followed by yet another giant pothole and tree that for no reason had decided to grow sideways into the street, followed by a parked car.

I cleared these obstacles and then finally moved to the left, where I had to slow down for a passing antelope. I reached another intersection and turned left.

I have always wanted to drive. I used to be very interested in cars and I have always been fond of speed. Now I am very fond of fast planes, and now I have come to CU Boulder to study aerospace engineering—in essence, to study the science of speed.

However I could not find the confidence in myself to go faster than 15mph because I was simply unable to think fast enough in traffic. Would a car cut me off at the intersection? Would I not be able to spot the stopped motorcycle right in front of me? Would I commit sacrilege and hit a sacred cow?

Thankfully, I found an empty stretch of road and I sped up. Finally, I was going fast but then my father said with growing terror, “Pothole! Pothole!”

I had to slam the brakes because I was fast approaching what could be more accurately described as a meteorite crater. And I thought the loud crash I had heard last night was the sound of the neighbors renovating.

The crater was followed immediately by a blind left turn where I found myself pinned between a cow, a massive ditch, a barking dog and a motorcycle carrying a small refrigerator. I stopped right there, turned the engine off and waited for the madness to subside. Whereupon the cow stood up, walked to our car and wiped her nose on my window.