The Parking Spot

I returned from office. These days it had become a struggle to park the car due to some civil construction in our colony. I somehow squeezed into a spot yet again and as I manoeuvred myself out of my car, I could not but help feel a sense of irritation yet again. There was an old Fiat parked next to mine, full of dust. It had not moved from it’s spot for as long as I could remember. “Wonder what it is with Prabirda?” I thought to myself. “Why does he not use his car anymore?”

Prabirda (Prabir Uncle) was a friend of my father. He was by no means a Bengali, but my father called him Prabirda and he did not protest. I also referred to him as Prabirda but addressed him as “Uncle”. They had a group that played bridge together and Prabirda often partnered with my father. For a very long time, every weekend, it was like religion for them to gather together and play all of Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Often, when the event was held at our place, I was allowed to sit in and watch the game. I remember that it used to be a pretty intense atmosphere and the men took their game very seriously indeed. To me Prabirda was what you would call in simple terms a handsome man. Full of life and energy, and he often used to even come and play cricket with our gang of boys. He also played the harmonica (mouth-organ) very well and often when they took a break between two bridge sessions, he would play a tune or two.

It was the twilight hour and the sun had painted the sky in brilliant hues of orange. With the setting of the sun there would be some respite from the October heat. The Pandal across the road is ready again. Rows of twinkling lights lit up Mori Road. The local band was practicing and little children were dancing with joy and with the arrival of the Goddess the street would come alive with fun and revelry very soon. It was the evening before Mahalaya.

As I soaked in the atmosphere from my balcony ledge, the feeling that Pujo was around the corner made me smile. I had to run down for a couple of chores and was at Chandu’s shop (our local kirana store). I was engrossed in completing my shopping list, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Remember me?” and as I turned back I could not but help say “Of course, what a coincidence, I was just thinking about you sometime back!” It seemed like a lifetime since I had met Prabirda last.

“Thinking about me eh” he mocked me. “Yes, how are you uncle. I am not joking. I parked my car next to yours today” I said. “No wonder, anyone who looks at my car cannot help but think about me. It’s the most ill maintained car in the colony.” he said. We collected our stuff from Chandu’s store and walked back to the colony. “Do you want some chai?” he asked. It had been a long time and I did not protest. I also had one selfish motive. If I could convince him to move his car, then I could reclaim my parking spot with greater comfort.

We ordered chai at the “tekdi” (small road side stall) outside our colony. Tambi the local boy served us the “cutting chai” that Mumbai is famous for. “They really make this well here” he said. ‘Why have you stopped driving?” I asked as we dug into our first sips of chai. “I have stopped driving since the last year or so. I almost had a fatal accident and was saved by the grace of God. I don’t have the confidence to drive anymore.” he said.

“Then sell the car. It won’t fetch you much, but you will be spared the maintenance” I suggested. That seemed to sadden him a bit. “You know, this car has some special sentiments attached to it. I used to go for long drives with your aunt every weekend and then we would end up eating out or going to the movies. On the last marriage anniversary that I celebrated with her, I went to Carter Road and we sat there for a long time. I even played the harmonica for her. It was our sliver jubilee that day. And the next year she was gone.” He looked at me and smiled. “Now only memories remain.”

We sipped our tea in silence and I said “I remember you playing the harmonica at our house between the bridge games. I still remember your favourite tune – Raj Kapoor’s Awara Hoon? Do you still play?” I asked. “No, that too gathers dust in my cupboard. Never played that after she left me.” I looked at him. He was a sad reflection of his former self. The dashing handsome man I knew had paled significantly both in spirit and demeanour. We heard the drums in the distance and the Goddess was on her way. “Let’s wait to see her arrive” Prabirda said. I agreed and as the Divine Mother entered the pandal, we bowed our heads in reverence and headed back to the colony.

As I bid him good bye and I saw Sankar my car wash person coming up. “Did you tell him to wash his car?” he asked. “Nope, I could not.” I said. Sankar had been imploring me to get Prabirda to get his car washed. This was the wish of many in the colony as well. I am not sure but it must have been the festive atmosphere around but Sankar graciously offered “Tell him to come down tomorrow morning. I will have his car washed for free once. At least if he sees that, he will feel like keeping it clean.” Now that was a plan that I could not refuse. Sounded good to me and I agreed to play the part of getting Prabirda to come down next morning.

I came back and my wife asked me, “What happened? What took you so long? You just had to buy a few items at Chandu’s?” she said. “Well I was trying to ask the gentlemen with the old dirty Fiat car to either sell his car or clean it and park it properly” I said. “Did he agree? Of course, he did not” she said, looking at my expression.

The next day Sankar was at my door at 6.30 AM. “Call him down in half an hour. I would have finished with cleaning his car. At least from the outside” Sankar said. Now I wanted to surprise Prabirda a bit so I went down and sent the security guard to his flat with a message saying that he must come down immediately as his car needed attention. “Don’t tell him anything else” I told the guard.

The guard ran up and conveyed the message, while Sankar and I waited. After about ten minutes, Prabirda came down dressed in shorts and a T Shirt. As he neared the car, his worried expression turned to one of surprise. The car was gleaming and shining. Sankar had done an amazing job and the old Fiat was fit enough to go on a vintage car rally. Prabirda stood for a long time gaping at the car. He looked at me and then at Sankar and gestured as if to say, I am touched. Then he covered his face in his hands and shook his head several times.

I went up to him and said “Are you happy or are you mad at us?” He turned around and gave me a big hug. “Thank you. It looks so amazing. I had almost forgotten what it was meant to look like. Can we take a photo – all of us” he said. With that said, Sankar, the Security Guard Mama, Prabirda and me – posed for photographs around his car. We took selfies and we took some ourselves. The folks in the colony doing the morning rounds also joined in the photo-op and we had about ten or twelve people now collected around Prabirda’s car. It was a moment for celebration for Prabirda and he ordered a round of “cutting chai” for everyone. As the tea arrived, we raised a toast to celebrate the new look of the car making Prabirda smile even more.

“Why don’t you drive her out today? You have the keys in your hand” I asked. He looked at me. “I am not sure he said. It has been a long time since I have been at the wheel. And in any case it won’t start. The battery would be completely out.” he said. There was a driver who was also a mechanic in the crowd that had gathered. The driver said, ‘Let’s give it a try uncle. Let Sankar clean the car from the inside as well.” Sankar was done in a jiffy and the interiors looked good. We were ready.

Prabirda got in the driver’s seat and cranked the engine. The engine sputtered for a while and as expected died out. The driver-cum-mechanic in the group got to work with Sankar and another round of chai followed. Different people offered different suggestions, given that almost everyone had some experience with an old Fiat. After diving into the engine for a while, the driver said, we need to now give her a good push to get her on the way. “We need some divine luck to get her started” I thought. The driver now took over the wheel from Prabirda and we all put our weight behind pushing the car.

We would push her, she would go some distance, the driver would crank the engine, the car would bump violently and then as you felt the engine might hold up, it would sputter and die. We were at this for a good fifteen minutes now and Prabirda said “One last try and then let’s go. Perhaps, I am not destined to drive her anymore”

Each one of us had now bought into the idea of getting Prabirda to drive the car. We were emotionally invested in some way. We prayed hard and every hand available around started pushing the car this last time. It gathered momentum. “Let it roll for some time” the driver shouted. “Faster, faster, faster” someone else said. And then finally the driver cranked the engine hard. The engine whirred and we prayed….and finally roared into life !! It held. This was nothing short of a miracle!

The driver now took the car for a spin to test it out. He came back and said, “She is good.” Prabirda got in the driver’s seat finally. He looked at me and I gave him a salute. This was almost like a pilot going on his first solo flight. He suddenly got out of the car and told us to watch over the car, with the ignition on. He went home and came back with his harmonica. He showed it to me “I am going to Carter Road son, will take a walk and play this as I used to do. Thank you once again and please come over sometime.” he said. “Which tune are you going to play uncle?” I asked. “Raj Kapoor, son Raj Kapoor, it was also your aunt’s favourite, Awara Hoon !”

As Prabirda left, we all dispersed with a sense of accomplishment. I headed back home. It had been well over an hour and my wife asked “Where were you for this long again?” This time I replied triumphantly “That old man with the Fiat – he has moved his car and cleaned it as well. We managed it” I said. “Thank God, you at least managed to do something successfully. I hope you did not offend the old fellow. Now come let’s get breakfast” she said. “Yes, Nothing short of a miracle!” I said.

It was the morning of Mahalaya. I put on the recording of the Chandi Path. As the voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra reverberated through the air, I felt the spirit of Pujo in the air and the magic of Mori Road was still alive.

Happy Pujo folks and wish you the very best for the Pujas this year.