Confessions of
a Derelict Car
Vasant Hattangadi
My
name’s Padmini --- Premier Padmini.
There have been quite a few men in my eventful life, but none so
charming as this prince Naresh, who doted on me no ends for two full years
before he fell for some super sophisticated cutie called Chevrolet. Later on, it
was only after Mr. Jasswala came into my life that it became so hectic. He even
took me once to the Himalayan Car Rally, in which I picked up a consolation prize.
For the last eight years, however, I have led a comparatively peaceful life
with an old, retired gentleman who adored me so much and looked after me so
well while our relationship lasted. Some two months back, however, we had to
suddenly and rather reluctantly part company as the poor fellow suffered a
stroke and was himself in dire need of care.
Since
then, life with my present new masters, Muralee and Britto has become one big
hell for me. The two nasty characters have made me do all sorts of detestable things
such as carrying explosives, guns and other contraband material in my boot.
Terrorizing people seems to be their only religion. They have been planting
bombs in parks, supermarkets and even in suburban trains taking away so many
innocent lives. They have massacred a whole lot of innocent women and children
and in all these dastardly acts, I have been made the hapless, reluctant
accomplice.
Today,
in their most diabolical plot hitherto, I was assigned the role of a suicide
bomber! This morning, I saw Britto strap
a small, metallic box on my underbelly. I saw them both working on the box for
quite a while, connecting some red and blue wires and finally, inserting what
looked like a detonator and a pair of torch cells. My worst suspicions were
confirmed when I saw Muralee carefully set the time by a thumbwheel switch
before closing the lid. We then drove down to the Regal Theatre and parked at
the entrance to its underground car park.
A police
constable showed up sometime later and banged his batten on my bonnet,
inquiring loudly as to which idiot had left the car parked there just below the
“No Parking” sign. I tried my best to attract his attention by making some wild
gestures, but, all in vain. “Pandu Dada! Look Here.” I called out. The
constable turned and looked all around, but though he had a queer feeling that
someone in distress was calling, he failed to spot me. “Aarre Bhai, Look here! I am here just behind you. There’s a BOMB in my boot!” But, either the fellow couldn’t hear me or didn’t
follow what I said. He surveyed all around once more, shrugged his shoulders
and went his way. They had probably set the bomb to go off at 9:00 p.m., just when
the second show gets over and a huge deluge of people pours out of the
theatre. It was going to be one big
disaster, I thought, if the damn thing went off then. Oh, there was going to be a certain holocaust in which hundreds of innocent
people would perish, unless ------. Unless, of course, I could somehow just do something to prevent it!
God! If
only I could move on my own steam!! He
must have heard my silent prayer. For, suddenly as if by miracle, I felt
something strange -- some life stirring inside me! It was as if some unknown
force had suddenly taken charge, started the ignition and stepped on the gas
pedal. Ggrrrr! Gggrrr!! I winced once, whimpered a little and then, like some
sleeping giant awakening, whirred into action. Before I knew what was
happening, I had already started moving out, slowly but definitely. Then, with
a sudden gusto and my horn blaring out, I lunged forward and whizzed past the
wide-eyed, awe-struck policeman straight into the traffic.
I went once
full circle around the traffic island before turning into M.G. Road. I knew now what exactly I had to do. It was
probably just what God intended for me to do that he had bestowed upon me these
miraculous powers of automation. I
looked up at the Museum Clock. It was quarter to nine -- just about fifteen
minutes left in which to reach Chhor Bazaar and give those, damned scoundrels a
taste of their own medicine! I increased my speed and in a jiffy hit 70
kilometers per hour, an unheard of speed for me during all those past ten
years. The constable and his officer had, by now, recovered enough from their
initial shock to report to the Control Room that an abandoned car had suddenly gone
berserk! They started chasing me in their jeep with the sirens wailing at full
blast.
I
entered the Kala Ghoda Circle, where a Youth Festival of Music was in progress.
A group of funnily clad young men on a makeshift bandstand were in the midst of
a Jazz number, which they suddenly stopped playing to gape at me in awed
silence. I roared through the crowd as frightened people ran helter-skelter to
make way for me even as I tried to steer clear of them. In the melee, however,
I did manage to topple a fruit vendor’s apple cart. I speeded through Hutatma
Chowk, where a group of anti-government activists was on its umpteenth hunger
strike and the very next moment, I was cheerfully waiving at the Old Lady of Bori
Bunder. The teeming crowds of commuters
pouring out of the Station, stood motionless in their tracks with their mouths
wide open as they saw a ‘driver-less’ motor car whiz past with the Police in hot pursuit. I looked at the clock.
God, Just Twelve minutes more!
Police
Inspector Inamdar was at his wit’s end trying to explain to his superiors at
the Control Room that he was chasing a speeding car which, apparently had no one at
the wheel but was yet moving through the crowded streets as if driven by an
expert motorist. He did not know how,
but most probably it was some remote-controlled, enemy vehicle or probably one from the outer space. No, he could not surmise what its mission could be but it was
heading towards Mohemadd Ali Road. Yes, he was trying his best to intercept it
but could not cope up with its speed, which was now touching almost a hundred.
I
crossed Mahatma Phule market. Now, a second police jeep had joined the chase. I
escaped into a side lane and turned right twice to emerge on the main road
again near Sheik Memon Street, which I entered now. I knew the hideout. It was
somewhere around here in an old, dilapidated building. Just five more minutes left. I had to speed up now before it was too late.
I turned into the Nankataiwalla lane and spotted the building at the end of the
road. Yes, that’s the one---Rezia Manzil. I changed into first gear and roared as
I struggled on to the pavement and rammed through the gates. I knew their den
was somewhere in the basement and there was a way to it on the backside. When I
reached the basement, I saw Anwar at the farthest end shout into his
transmitter, “Haan, Janab. Mission’s Fateh”.
Just then, he looked up and his face turned pale white like an apparition as
he saw me coming ahead in full throttle and plough into his desk. He panicked, got up and ran stumbling along
the way towards the other end of the room, where his other two friends, Muralee
and Britto were celebrating their “success” over a bottle of Vodka with the boss,
Shaukat Mansoori! Just then Britto
looked up and saw me approach them at top speed; glancing at his watch he screamed,
“My God!” Ah Ha, NOW you remember GOD! Bastards, you didn’t remember Him when you slaughtered them --- those poor, little kids
in the park, did you?
All of them started running for their life
towards the exit. I reversed a little bit, turned right and charged forward
again to intercept them head on. Just two more minutes left! I had all four
of them cornered now, precisely where I wanted them, their eyes pleading for mercy
as I dashed towards them in full fury.
They started running towards the corner room, where they had dumped all
their ammunition and explosives. I shoved
them in swiftly, like a bulldozer ----- Vrrroomm! Vrrroomm! VRROOMM!
Next day, across the front page in all the
newspapers were the headlines:
“DERELICT CAR RUNS AMUCK : SMASHES TERRORIST DEN.”
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