I REMEMBER, not very longago,how excited the whole household would be whenever a new gadget was bought.We’dall gather around it, unwrap it, admireit, and then look for the booklet which told us howtooperate it. I lovedtopour over it in great detail. This also applied to buying acar - it came with asense of ceremony.And pride, of course.After parkingitinits allottedplace,much timewasspent admiring it from all angles,sitting in the driver's seat, the passenger seat,honking, testing thedoors and the locks and the many knobs and buttons. It also came with an instruction manual, which, like asincerestudent appearing for an exam, I’d leaf through from covertocover.The moderately thickand glossy booklet explained everything from how to switch on the headlights to what that mysterious blinking light meant. It always came in handy during any kind of emergency. Recently,the excitement of driving home in a swanky new car was cut shortwhen on reaching home,Ifound that the packet handed over contained abox of mithai but did not contain that all important booklet. For, when Isat in the car and looked at all that it had to offer,I was flummoxed.

 

From the driver’s seat, it looked less like acar and more like aspaceship.Asleek black panel that stretched right across thewidth of the carre placed the all too familiar bulky dashboardwith its dials and needles.Needless to mention -the key has been replaced by aFOB,and it took me awhile to figure out where the handles for operating thedoors were.They were aseamless partofthe sleek body, not like the regular jutting out handles that you pulled towards you while opening the door. When Ihit the startswitch, the black panel lit up,blinking, like waking up from deep slumber. Beep Beep and suddenly Iwas face-to-face with what seemedlike the entire internet-music,maps, weather,calls,messages, and yes, even YouTube. My co-passenger can sit and watch afull-fledged movie while Inavigate Nagpur traffic and my own inadequacies. Ihaveyears of driving experience and Iconsider myselfafairly seasoned,confident driver.Ican proudly state that Ihavereversed into really tight spaces,maneuvered through chaos,maintained my composurewhen two-wheelers zigged and zagged right in my path.

 

I am often referred by one and all as a‘marveldriver’. But I am at sea if someone asks me about how the various instruments in the car function. Without the booklet to help me,Ihave to turn to my most reliable friend Google. Intelligent, non-judgmental, alwaysready with answers.“Why is my car making abeeping sound?” “What does this yellowtriangle mean?” “Why is the cameraalertblinking?” It knows everything. It responds instantly.Itdoesn’t roll its eyes.Like youknow! Icannot turn to my better half for any help regarding functioning of the car because then I amlooked down upon.The firstreactionis always, “How many years haveyou been driving and itna bhi nahin samajhta?” Arreybhai! If I knew, Iwouldn’t be asking you. So,of late,my weapon is selective ignorance. With the new car,I am an ace with the basics,- press the startbutton, shift to drive, and off Igo. The rest? Purely decorative. Having surrendered myself to the barbs from my partner,I haveleft the nitti gritties of the car to him. Isimply drive. Toodifficult to maneuvre the car at the fuel station, so thatis nowhis department,soischecking the tyrepressureandofcourse, the maintenance of acar can never be awoman’s job.I haveyet to see awoman on the floors of a garage where my car goes for its check ups.

 

All this is okay,until reality strikes. As youall areawareof, the car’s internal mechanism now comes withavoice-afemale or amale -the choice is yours. One day, the dulcet voice statedpolitely,"Fuellevellow”.Soft, almost apologetic. Iignored it. The car and Ihave an understanding-I ignore its warnings,it continues to function. Butthen the tone changed. “FUEL LEVEL LOW.” This time,itwas louder.Firmer.Slightly accusatory. Iglanced at thepanel.A blinking icon.The graph signalling level of the fuel was red-itlooked dangerously close to zero.Still, Icarried on. After all, optimism is a wonderful thing. A few minutes later,the voicere turned,now bordering on panic.“FUEL LOW. PLEASE REFUEL”. Now even I, with my impressiveability to procrastinate,realised that this was not asuggestion. This was acommand. So,I did what any sensible person would do.I drovestraight into the nearest petrol pump,trying to look as though this was part of a routine. The attendant approached, pipe in hand, efficient and ready.“Petrol?” he asked. Inodded with quiet authority,as if I refuel cars everyday.“Full tank”. He movedtowards the fuel door. And paused. I, too,paused. Therewas amoment of silent understanding between us-he was waiting forme to open the fuel lid. Iwas waiting for divine intervention. Now, in older cars,this was simple.Alever near the driver’s seat. Pull it, and voilà. But in this car? Nothing.Nolever.Nobutton.Just smooth, unbroken surfaces mocking me. Ipressed afew things casually,hoping for amiracle.The windows went down. The music volume increased. The interiors changed its mood from ambient to romantic -whatever that meant. The airconditioninghissed.Butthe fueldoorremained stubbornly shut.

 

The attendant shifted his weight. The pipe hovered mid-air.Time stretched. People behind me honked. Asking him felt… humiliating. After all, Ihad drivenin confidently,orderedafull tank.Onecannot then turnaround and say,“Excuse me,where is the lever for the fuel tank?” So,Idid what any modern, self-respecting individual does in acrisis. Ipicked up my phone. Aquick, discreet search -‘How to open fuel lid in my car model’. Bless theall-knowingGooglewhoquicklysprang into action. Within seconds,there it was-a video. A cheerful mande monstrating exactlywhatIneeded to do.“Simply press this hidden button on the door panel”, he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. I followed instructions with the seriousness of a surgeon. Pressed the button. Click. The fuel lid opened. Aha! The attendant grinned, sprang into action, and Iwas relieved that the stalemate had ended - without any melodrama. That day,however,I made asilent resolution. Maybe-just maybe-it was time to learnwhat all those buttons actually do.Takelessons from the car salesman who talked me into buying it. And this time,pay more attention. Or, at theveryleast,book mark a few more Google pages.Of‘the functioning of mycar’.