A Driving Force
Personal Essay
So my rational son, my logical son, and the man who lives with me, who is both rational and logical, feel that I might become a better person if I were to get back to sitting behind the steering wheel of a car, and moving it around.
I already have a driving license to prove that for some terror-filled weeks, I once drove around the crazy lanes of Mumbai. AND passed a test, purely through the good offices of my driving instructor. He realised that he would suffer a nervous breakdown if he were to instruct me any longer.
So for some days now, after our walk, this gentleman who shares my house with me, sits me behind the wheel and patiently explains concepts like gear, clutch, accelerator, hand-break, mirror angles, Ac, window, mirror, door, windscreen wiper buttons and positions. And I am very happy to state that I remember all these things, on most days, and I can successfully point out to these, if their names are called out.
My instructor is pleased at this remarkable ability: but he is sorely disappointed by the fact that I watch the scenery while I am supposed to be paying attention to the road. Or I exclaim, “Look, look, the new banyan tree leaves are a delicate shade of pink, coral, rose, flamingo, peach and magenta!’ Or, “Oh, God, that baby is so cute!”
He sternly rebukes me and tells me that I need to pay attention and not get distracted by these things. And he is right, of course: my logical son and my rational son would also agree with him.
But distraction is my middle name: and I love to be distracted, and I thrive on it. I need to un learn decades of delightful distraction and concentrate.
Hmm.
Sigh!
The Sun did not emerge today in my village.
Has it, in yours?