My Dad and his Car

15 year old boy dating 18 year old Men love their flying machines and my Dad was no exception.

femme cherche bruxelles My Dad loved his car, perhaps, more than anything else, in the world. He looked after it like a baby, tending to every squeak and scratch. Behind the wheel, he was a different person. Not the mild mannered Pathriyar, the world knew. The exasperated, expletives that tumbled out, were completely veterinary. His favourite epithet was Kazhutha, donkey in tamil. Traffic and pedestrians jostled for space on the new roads of old Singapore. Jay walking was the norm and when these hapless mortals, fell in haphazard fashion in front of honking traffic, my Dad would unlock the gates of the Noah’s Ark, in his head and the animals would trot out, two by two, with the Tamil donkey , the kazhutha, leading the attack. In all fairness, when he called them by their taxonomic genus, it sounded like terms of endearment. Every 2 years, my Dad, changed the cars to keep them repair free and road worthy. Every two years, my Mum and I, would be invited to choose the colour of the next car. We would be driven to the Automobile Showroom and we would browse to choose all sorts of exotic, vibrant, metallic colours. Predictably, come delivery date, my Dad, would bring the practical black one home. This happened every time, but it never stopped us from going again, the next time to drool and choose. In all the 33 years that he worked as the Pathriar at Christ Church, he never apologised for the car he drove or parked.

binära optioner avanza When he returned to India, after his retirement in 1973, he brought his Mercedes Benz, in the carrier that brought all their luggage to Madras. As the car was being driven down the ramp, from the ship to shore, onlookers made absurd offers with ready cash, to buy it on the spot, as is, where is. My Dad feigned selective deafness, as he strode into the Customs Office, to pay a hefty amount as tax.  When my Dad placed the money on the table, he was advised to pay a certain sum of money to the clerk, who was counting the notes, if he wanted an official receipt.

watch Welcome to India….Canon Baboo…..wafted the invisible buntings, over the wharf  of Madras Harbour.

source My mum was secretly praying, that my Dad would relent and sell it off en route. She was the practical one in the marriage and she knew that the Car would be Guzzler. It would guzzle special petrol, available only in special petrol pumps, at special premium prices. She knew that there would be a paucity of spare parts, albeit at special prices, in case of accidents or repairs. She knew the car would be a be a special liability. She also knew, that it would be an eyesore on the streets of Madras amongst fellow clergy, who were expected to walk , or cycle at best. Fancy cars, were not for a cleric even if he was retired and returning from overseas. This was not Singapore, where the car you drove, did not define your status.

paginas de hombres solteros con plata This is Madras, Iyah. ….she explained to my Dad….not Singapore, Iyah

get link True to her predictions , the car invited unsavoury remarks from fellow clergy, when he went for Church services . You should sell it and give the money to the poor….they pontificated, in well practised, self righteous tones. All this is too worldly , they declared. Creature comforts were not for the clergy. Sack cloth, ashes, bare feet and a bullock cart were his passport to heaven, they felt. No shoes for the shoemaker, if one was a priest.

go here My Dad, soon learned to ignore these barbs and went about his business, driving the car he loved, stepping in as a stepney priest, for services , baptisms and funerals all over Madras, at short notice and often back to back when needed.

speed dating for 20 year olds With time, the taunts stopped and they left my Dad alone. Eventually, when my Dad suffered two successive Myocardial Infarctions, my Mum employed a local driver, which was the last straw, as far as my Dad was concerned. He had never ever given his wheel to another human being in his life. Never. Ever. He went into rigor mortis, every time the driver scraped and scratched the car, at every crowded, corner street in Madras. He was catatonic, when the street urchins used stones to write their names on the car. Regretfully, he gave in to my Mum’s advice, to let the car go, before it disintegrated to scrap metal, of no value, to man or beast.

They bought a black Ambassador, which was functional and drove them from point A to point B and that was perfectly alright. The only problem was that they had no clue about Numerology or Vastu. The number plate of the Car was 9188 , which added up to 8, a number that no one in Madras would be seen in, dead or alive.

Has anyone tried selling a car with a number plate that adds up to 8 in Madras?


You are sadly lacking in your education if you have not, my friend .

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