IT is a joy to grow up in the narrow lanes of a non-cosmopolitan and non-metropolitan city, where your upbringing revolves around your parents’ two-wheeler. Often, this leads you to some ambitious goals, including owning a four-wheeler, and the cherry on the cake is when the car is a brand-new one.
To seal the deal, we were accompanied to the car showroom by Bittu, Raju, Happy, Simmi and Meenu, whom we grew up with and honed our driving skills on their cars. They were equally excited and offered their expert advice on even which company offered the best value for money if we ever needed an insurance claim — a thought that was bone-chilling at the time. We didn’t get a stereo fitted by the dealer, a fact which my father-in-law still rues.
After the customary photo with a Kodak camera, I drove the car home, safely avoiding every pothole on the way. Waiting for us at home was our bigger gang — no wonder five kilos of laddoos from Punnu Halwai disappeared in no time. All this joy and no loan, we thought the car was all ours for years to come, until the time came for us to migrate to Australia the very next year.
Proudly, the first car has just completed its silver jubilee; it still manoeuvres every pothole efficiently and takes over more modern cars at times — courtesy my father-in-law’s passion and deep pockets to keep it in immaculate shape. Sitting comfortably in the back seat in his white kurta-pyjama, he is an esteemed customer keenly awaited by the local dealer for the six-monthly service.
At the same time, it’s been one year since we bought our second brand-new car. It is a battery-run vehicle that had hit the headlines worldwide, but was yet to be launched in India at that time. Thus, it offered me a perfect opportunity to do a virtual fukri session with my friends in India!
Going through the ebb and flow of a classic first-generation migrant’s life, it took me almost 20 years to again walk into a car warehouse, a fact many fellow public servants across the world would agree with. Surprisingly, the car is keyless and thus has prevented many ferocious arguments already.
It took just 10 minutes for the dealer to help us download the app and just a second to say ‘enjoy’ without giving us any opportunity to pose for the customary photo. No friends or family to offer us advice except Dr Google. But we slipped a piece of home-made barfi into each other’s mouth when we reached home.
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The Tribune, now published from Chandigarh, started publication on February 2, 1881, in Lahore (now in Pakistan). It was started by Sardar Dyal Singh Majithia, a public-spirited philanthropist, and is run by a trust comprising five eminent persons as trustees.
The Tribune, the largest selling English daily in North India, publishes news and views without any bias or prejudice of any kind. Restraint and moderation, rather than agitational language and partisanship, are the hallmarks of the newspaper. It is an independent newspaper in the real sense of the term.
The Tribune has two sister publications, Punjabi Tribune (in Punjabi) and Dainik Tribune (in Hindi).
Remembering Sardar Dyal Singh Majithia
