Fear gripped me. Adrenaline ran so high that the foot slipped off the pedal, but the little car battled to keep the dying spirits ablaze. I look back with undying admiration. 

Read on …

 June 1999: 

Laughter and giggles filled the drawing room amidst the clinks of glasses and cutlery. A small social gathering, organized by my family on a weekend was at full swing. Among the many who had come, there were a few who were very elderly ladies, well past their octogenarian milestones.

The merriment was reaching its crescendo when the monsoon made its presence felt by an earth-shattering thunderclap, followed by the rain. All the party sound was gone, replaced by a fierce drumming of torrential downpour.

Kolkata has its monsoon season or the rainy season from mid-June to August or sometimes beyond. The rain increased its fury for two hours with an inevitable outcome, water-logging. The drainage system in Kolkata is extremely old and not much of its design and network has changed, since independence in 1947. The slight pressure of rain and water clogs the very old conduits.

Fearing the worst, my mother wrapped the function early; asked me to drive the four elderly ladies, who had to go back home. I gingerly acquiesced.

I was driving the same car which starred in my College street episode. We were four of us, and through the driving rain, the little car made its way towards Middleton road where I had to cross a three kilometers stretch, infamous for butchering cars by guzzling them by its powerful water pools. I was set to dispatch my elderly occupants beyond this section. It was after nine pm in the night, so the one-way restriction was off, and the cars could go both ways. I took a right from AJC Bose Road crossed into Camac street, that headed towards Park Street.

We had hardly gone about two hundred and fifty meters when the water level had risen up to about four feet from the road. I switched off all the lights, fearing short-circuits and with a half-clutch, increased the engine revolutions so that no water could enter the exhaust pipe at the rear.

One drop getting sucked in would have killed the engine instantly.

With the engine, nearly screaming its gut out, the sound got muffled as I saw signs of water gushing in through the door hinges into the cabin. I pressed on, and the sea of water formed waves as the bonnet and the radiator pushed the water which created deluge that thrashed the roadside buildings. I wondered whether I was behind the wheel of a car or a motorboat.

About fifteen minutes passed, halfway, to the Middleton road, the unmistakable red sign of the battery which I dreaded, came on behind the small dashboard glass of the car. The charging had stopped, which meant the alternator perhaps had packed in.

The car made its agonizing journey through the water. I muttered all the good forces on earth to keep us from stalling. I navigated seven cars on either side, all stone dead who also had shared my objective and had failed. 

The stranded drivers were looking at us with awe. Finally, we reached Middleton and my elderly passengers dispatched.

I changed coordinates to head back home.

With profuse showering of blessings, they parted company as I turned my little car one hundred and eighty degrees to complete the arduous journey of coming back. Series of stranded cars a couple of new ones, blocked the Middleton, and in no way, I could have proceeded towards Jawaharlal Nehru road. I kept the engine running and she pushed on. With the same number of cars static on their death bed, I had a fair bit of an idea by now of the water level that existed. The engine temperature had gone past the normal and slowly edged towards the mark ‘H’ and reaching the red-line.

I prayed as I could figure out, probably the water had moved into the water pump which circulated the water with coolant mix around the engine. Within minutes, my left foot shuddered as the clutch hopelessly missed its grip on the fly-wheel. I saw the white smoke streaming down the bonnet edge. It was raining hard, the wipers were off to conserve battery power. Light and ghostly images ran rampant over the water-laden windscreen. I could hardly see them.

I drove on till I reached the drier surface on AJC Bose road and patting the car dashboard, I urged her to munch the remaining four kilometers to our home. By now, all the engine warning system glow signs were burning bright. Several electronic pieces of equipment had died. By some stroke of luck, the engine was running and the wheels were turning. Finally, I reached home. 

I parked in front of my house and looked up to see my mother standing for my return. At that instant, the car stopped. I did not get a chance to turn off the keys. The engine died away and within minutes the battery coughed up too, as all the lighting system caved in. She was lifeless, dripping water down all her sides, her mudguards, her black bumper shinning the single bulb light on our gate. A white glistening metal shape on four wheels which journeyed through hell, respectfully lying like a stone. I could not keep my hand on the hot bonnet, the white smoke was belching away through the sides. She did what she was supposed to do. Like a trained St. Bernard dog, she was committed to serve and helped reach her owner, safe, and died in the process.

She never had let me down, ever in any precarious situation.  She could have succumbed mid-way but did she? Nay, she did not …

I opened the driver’s door to get inside her. I settled in as I could smell the earthy smell of rain water, the pungent whiff of burned oil, hot plastics, heated steel and rubber filled the cabin. Traces of petrol fumes added to the water carnage as it had condensed after the torridness settled.

Her warmth and care made me drift away on her driver’s seat. I stayed with her through the dark rainy night.

The least I could have done to comfort her.

Do not miss the incredible story of this car, where she stopped me from getting off at Camac street.

Similarly, the Zen we had, saved us at Nagarjuna Sagar dam and again, fulfilled a dream of a mother at Golconda fort.