Bombay Driving

Like most Aussies, the first thing I wanted to do after my sixteenth birthday was get my driving license. I managed to pass the written test and get my 'L'plates easily enough, following which a friend of my mother's offered to teach me to drive. One of the advantages of growing up in the country meant there were lots of empty spaces to practise in, and for my first driving lesson we chose a treeless pasture. Well, not completely treeless. There was one tree. A single, solitary tree in acres of grassland. I hit it. In mum's car. And my driving lessons pretty much ended there.

For the next 20 or so years I made do with public transport. Since I spent most of this time in Sydney, where buses and trains are cheap and reliable, it wasn't really a problem. I never even thought about trying for my driving license again.
Then I moved to Bombay. Or to be exact, the outskirts of Bombay. Most Bombay residents who can afford it have drivers, such are the stresses and dangers of the roads. However our location made it difficult to find someone who was both experienced and didn't charge exorbitant rates. I did most of my traveling around in auto-rickshaws, which are basically three wheeler motorbikes in a thin metal casing which offers about as much protection as a sheet of aluminium foil. Great for short distances. Scary on the highway I do most of my traveling on. And so my husband Ryan decided, with two small kids to ferry around, I needed to learn to drive.

I signed up with a local driving school, and they applied for my 'learners permit' for me. No need to memorise any road rule booklets here. A week later, permit in hand, I was ready for my first lesson. The car I learnt in, belonging to the school, was a severely dented hatchback, with a cracked windscreen and missing side mirrors. Obviously it had seen a fair bit of action in its lifetime. My instructor spoke no English, so my Ryan volunteered to sit in the back and translate. The roads we learnt on were some of the busiest in Bombay, and the first time I pulled out the car it was straight into heavy traffic. Probably the only reason we survived was that the instructor had a duplicate set of controls. The downside of this being that I was never sure when I was driving, and when he was. I'm guessing it was almost always him. He didn't seem particularly suicidal.

Ryan's backseat translation lasted for about a week, after which frayed nerves got the better of him and he decided I'd better go on my own. By this time the instructor had pretty much finished telling me anything apart from 'left' 'right' and 'STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!' anyway. Traffic rules were never really mentioned. There were a few basic 'guidelines' but pretty much anything was okay as long as I could get away with it. That is, as long as I wasn't caught by a cop or caused a major traffic pile up. The only violations the cops are really interested in are ignoring traffic signals, blatantly chatting on mobile phones and not wearing seatbelts, all of which they can extract instant 'fines' for.

When I'd done the required number of driving hours it was time to take the licensing test. The driving school took a group of students, including myself, out to what looked like an abandoned factory in a crumbling industrial area. The 'factory' turned out to be the local Roads and Transport office. I presented an official with my documents including my Indian Permanent Resident's card, known as a PIO. He looked puzzled. I may have been the first foreigner he'd seen applying for an Indian license. 'Is this the correct document?'he asked me. 'I guess so' I said. Satisfied with that, he stamped my application form and I was ready to take my test.

After years of wondering how many Bombay drivers ever got licenses, all suddenly became clear. Accompanied by the examiner I had to drive about four meters, make a u-turn, and pull over. That was it. The examiner turned to me. 'Your driving not good' he said 'but okay you can pass.' One week later, I had my drivers license. A few months later Ryan bought me a car, automatic to reduce my chances of causing an accident, and stuck a red duct tape 'L' on the back window. I was officially a Mumbai driver. My first spin in the new car with Ryan I hit the front gate to our building. Ryan will no longer be a passenger when I'm driving.

So far I have been driving for 9 months. My arms no longer ache from gripping the steering wheel for dear life. I navigate my way around buses, autos, motorbikes, trucks and other cars the way I imagine someone might weave through an asteroid field. Strangely I've come to enjoy the challenge. Although many Mumbai drivers clearly hold their lives cheaply, I am full of admiration for the majority, who not only squeeze through the tightest spots with ease but almost have a sixth sense for upcoming obstacles.

An Accidental Dog

When you live close to, and frequently use, a highway you get used to seeing accidents. Overturned trucks, smashed up cars, firemen hosing down the road (euw). A motorcycle once hit the taxi I was in, going into a 180° spin before landing on top of its two, unhelmeted riders. They got up and walked off to a chorus of honking from angry commuters with no patience for road blocking collisions. Needless to say, it is not unusual to also see the animal victims of speeding vehicles lying beside the highway. Most of them either mangled and bloody or bloated up in the hot Mumbai sun.

Four days ago I was on my way to the shops when I spotted one such victim. Although going past at some speed, I did notice there was neither blood nor bloating on this dog, lying up against the highway divider. As I sped away the thought struck me that the unfortunately animal might not be dead. To be completely honest I kind of hoped it was.
But dammit, now there was doubt in my mind. What if the dog was alive and like every other commuter that must have passed it that day, I left it there to die a slow painful death.

Several meters up the road I made a u-turn to check on the dog. I miscalculated and passed the little furry brown pile before I had a chance to slow down, but I did see it raise it’s head. Not dead then. Silent curses. Okay, now I really felt obligated to do something, images of all my past dogs flitting through my mind – what if it had been Muffy? U-turning again, I pulled up alongside the dog, which I could now see was small, female, and had no external injuries. As gently as I could I lifted her and put her on the backseat of the car. The poor thing tried weakly to bite me, but didn’t really have the strength.

Now what? I called my sister-in-law, who used to volunteer at the Bombay SPCA to ask if there were any animal shelters in my area that could take an injured stray. No, she said, I would have to take it to the BSPCA hospital in Parel, about an hour away. With an injured dog now lying on my backseat I really didn’t have a choice.

The BSPCA hospital is on a wooded piece of land in the middle of a busy business district, where it has been for the last 130 years. With limited funds and resources, they treat about 10000 injured animals a year. Dogs, cats, pigs, goats, cows, even pigeons, none are turned away. After signing a form declaring the dog I picked up as a stray, and making a voluntary donation, my little passenger was seen too almost immediately. She was scheduled for an x-ray the next morning and given her own little ‘cubicle’ to stay in. The BSPCA staff was kind and reassuring.

Since then I’ve been back a few times to check on the little doggy. She is recuperating, the hospital estimates it will take at least 2 weeks for her injuries to heal, and she is much more responsive than when I first brought her in. She wags her tail and drags herself towards me in a way both heartwarming and heart-wrenching when I speak to her. I don’t know yet what I’ll do with her when she’s completely healed. Normally the BSPCA return strays to where they were found once they’re recovered. With millions of stray dogs and a minimal budget there’s really not much else they can do. The Indian ‘pariah’ dog, the breed of most strays, can live up to 15 years when looked after. The average for strays is five.

And so one act of conscience leads to another as I canvas everyone I know in the city to try and find a home for a sweet dog, to save her from the dangerous life of the streets. I know I’ll be doing both her and her new owner a favour as pariahs make wonderful pets, not prone to the allergies and genetic frailties of imported breeds. Fingers crossed this story has a happy ending.

Parents Are Always Wrong

While at a restaurant the other day, I took my 3 year old son to the bathroom to make pee-pee. My son, as usual, refused to walk in a straight line by my side instead choosing a bizarre backwards waddle that he found much more entertaining. Until he waddled into a wall. Although he didn’t really hurt himself, my son is never one to miss out on an opportunity to create a scene for an audience. While hurriedly maneuvering my wailing progeny out the door I couldn’t help but notice the glares of disapproval aimed at me, Careless Mother, coming from the other diners. You could see their mouths moving in silent ‘tsk, tsks’ as they paused in their lunches to behold my poor obviously neglected child.

This mass disapproval is something all parents will have experienced at some time or another. Because if there’s one thing every man and his boozy childless bachelor friend knows, it’s the correct way other people’s children should be raised. Something that the actual parents of the children will never get right. Oh, we may buy up all the ‘Happy Healthy Toddler’ and ‘Teach Your Child With Love’ books but really, you can no more follow their instructions than those on a ‘self-assemble’ bunk bed. Or anything that comes with an allen key. It’s just not possible.

People who have not birthed your particular offspring, however, do not have this handicap. They may have been complete dunces with their own children, they may not have children at all, but either way, they are experts at yours. And they don’t mind letting you know it. “Oh” says the nice old lady, shaking her head in disapproval at my t-shirted daughter “She needs a sweater. She will get cold.” The “and will probably end up hospitalized with pneumonia” is left unspoken. It is in fact 25°C out but still, you can never be too careful. Or rather, a less irresponsible parent wouldn’t.

Of course, for the absolute apex of scrutiny and disapproval by strangers, a parent with small children need only take their kids to the local supermarket. Supermarkets are to kids what rave parties are to young adults. A chance to behave with wild abandon and ingest things not generally allowed. All children know instinctively that this is the place where parents are at their most vulnerable, that is – in public. This is the time to wail “I WANT A LOLLYPOP” or “NOT THAT ONE I WANT THE CHOCOLATE ONE” because really, what are mummy and daddy going to do about it?

If the parent has read up on their helpful parenting guides, he/she will calmly explain that although he/she understands that Timmy wants the chocolate bar, he/she can’t give it to Timmy because it is bad for him. To which Timmy will reply with a high-pitched squealing sure to have fellow shoppers covering their ears while their eyes shoot daggers in your direction. Another useful book suggestion involves removing the child from the supermarket. And let me tell you, nothing invites judgment like dragging a limp, screaming toddler, who may or may not be screeching “OW YOU’RE HURTING ME! STOP! OUCH OUCH OUCH!” down a supermarket aisle.

So you give in and buy the sugary lump with added sugar (‘contains artificial colours and flavours’), an act described by many experts as ‘the easy way out.’ Which it is. Which is exactly why you do it. Shame on you.