Getting carried away in our first second-hand car
One winter evening, we were busy with our chores but thinking about the same thing. A horn in the distance broke the routine, goading us to rush out of the gate together. A vehicle appeared from the dense fog, much to our excitement. The closer it got, the faster our hearts raced.
Sporting a broad smile, dad, who was at the wheel, accompanied by my maternal uncle announced loudly, “Get ready, quickly!” We were going to the market for a spin in our first secondhand car. Bubbling with happiness, we dashed back to look our best. No sooner had we reached inside than my maternal uncle stood on our heads apprising us of the urgency to sit in the car.
He revealed to our utter bewilderment that stopping the old engine of the car would mean we all needed to push it for all we were worth to restart it. His caveat put our idea of enhancing our aesthetic appeal on the back seat and we unanimously decided to go ahead in our lowly casual wear. The patches of peeled paint around the doors marked with conspicuous scratches failed to dent our enthusiasm.
Donning the role of a salesperson, my uncle took us for a briefing about the car’s so-called sophisticated interiors. Having informed us about the gearbox functionality, he turned up the volume of the stereo with songs of a bygone era blaring for us to sway to the booming woof of the sideways rasping speakers.
The visibility in the twilight was good enough yet dad turned on the high beam to show mom how far and long his eyes could see in the headlights, casting radiant luminescence all over the road. Unable to bridle his excitement, dad showed us the ticking of the indicators on the dashboard before turning on the wipers that went on grating against the cracked windshield to assure the family that henceforth, untimely rain would fail to deter our trips. Letting the engine idle that evening, we soaked in the regal feel as we munched on street food slouching leisurely in our cosy seats.
On our return, to dispel the fog and warm the interiors, my uncle switched on the blower, but we all started shivering, clenching our fists and gritting our teeth. We discovered that only the airconditioner was in working mode. For the rest of the journey, uncle was wiping off the fogged-up windshield with his handkerchief much to our amusement.
Proud of our coveted status of being the first family in our circle to have bought a four-wheeler, we spent the night with squared shoulders and bloated chests, gossiping, swapping reminiscences and answering the landline phone that brought us loads of congratulations.
Two decades on, the memories came flooding back recently as my fingers tried to feel the futuristic streamlined design and plush interiors of our brand-new ritzy car. Despite having had every new upscale feature under its belt, it was not as fortunate and privileged as its primitive peer that had bathed in the gushing torrent of unchecked warmth, fervour and gaiety.
THE PATCHES OF PEELED PAINT AROUND THE DOORS MARKED WITH CONSPICUOUS SCRATCHES FAILED TO DENT OUR ENTHUSIASM