my favourite red

The apple of daddy’s eye, uncle’s prized possession, grandfather’s pride and the cynosure of all eyes in family gatherings, tea parties and brunch afternoons. Overwhelmed by the adulation, she had blushed very much like a newly married bride. It was the December of 1986, on a chill Sunday evening that my family welcomed two new generations - their third generation prodigy, a curly haired baby girl born to my parents and a cherry red hatchback gifted to my uncle – sure you can guess who was precious of the two.

While I was christened ceremoniously much later, she was named MH 01 AC 8933 and fondly called the ‘800’. Sleek built, lean fit, the impeccable red ensured each line and curve stood out bright. A symbol of progressive India, Maruti 800 brought luxury an inch closer to the upper middle class of a growing nation. Red became the colour of the decade and rode high on four wheels with the driver flashing a 100 watt smile. An ownership meant celebrations, though even a long drive along the countryside was enough to have week long conversations over hot cuppas. She had stolen hearts, inspired minds and lit up endearing smiles upon a nation who was envisioning a promising horizon.

At home, drive around the city in a chic car was a treat for the most deserving one. Dotted i’s and crossed t’s, extra math sums, gleaning lunch boxes, be it any task, they were all efficiently accomplished to jump onto the band wagon. Button locks, deft floor gears, life sized wind shield, and the distinct fragrance of new seat covers were exciting but my favourite was the window which rolled down all the way to rest your arm, and tilt your head to romance the wind as it ruffled your hair.

Every Sunday the ears longingly awaited the familiar horn jingle while the clock ticked to 5 p.m. It was time for uncle to arrive in his swashbuckling Maruti 800 and take all nieces and nephews on a city tour. Seeing her roll down to my gate, the adrenalin overflowed lighting up an inimitable glee of excitement! The most well behaved took the passenger seat, while the others piled up behind. We drove through the bylanes of Shivagi park, zoomed along Worli Sea face and Haji Ali and cruised past the magnificent Marine Drive. At Nariman Point we were treated to spicy corncob, tangy paani puri, and watched the sun set on a delightful day over soothing icy orange candy and raspberry dolly. On the drive back home this luxury on wheels kept at bay the glum of the following manic Monday.

Scorching summers, torrential rains or chill winters, we were entrusted in the care of this red guardian who never let us down. She waded though the floods at Nana chowk, kept us warm in the Lonavala ghats and kept the mood upbeat while the sun blazed in Gujarat. In 1993, I remember huddling under the seat while the driver sped past Passport Office, which was erupting in flames after the 7^th Mumbai blast.... Maruti 800 was a loyalist, one could implicitly trust. .

Seasons turned, years rolled, bruises and scratches dulled the bright red, swerves and mounts rattled nuts bolts but its zesty engine never ceased to roar. The petite lass had aged with grace, fatigue had begun to show, yet she stole hearts like before!

In March 2001, we relived our glory for the last time. Sixteen years old, we drove through the bylanes of the city reminiscing each priceless moment. I have known it is hard to bid goodbye, but realized it is harder when the other soul can’t express its emotions. Did she have a last wish, would she too remember us forever.... It was February 2003 when I was bestowed with an official driving license, my dream had been realized! A silver Zen, green Wagon R and matt Alto, I had to take my pick for the drive of honour. They constituted her genome, belonged to her lineage and reflected her legacy. Yet the eyes darted in search of the bright red, wish you were here....