Indica is a small car. I realised just how small when on my way back from Pune, in a private taxi, I found myself wedged between two very healthy gentlemen in the backseat. With the trip time estimated to be around two and a half hour, I resigned myself wearily to being straight-jacketed for the better part of the trip what with my arms being pinned helplessly to my sides by the overflowing flab of the aforementioned gentlemen. At least - I thought to myself with a half hearted attempt at optimism - in the event of a car crash, I would have lots of cushioning (the thought that I could be crushed to death never entered my head apparently).
You think that's bad? Wait till I tell you about the dark, plump gentleman (lets call him DPG) on my right, who decided that it would be a good idea to smoke inside the car as it was such a lovely weather outside. Surprisingly, before he did that, he turned to me and asked "I want to smoke?" with a wide toothy smile. Being not quite sure how to interpret that question, I gave him a "Why don't you just murder me instead?" expression, whereupon he happily lit up a ciggarette and began to puff away.
I looked to my left at the fair plump gentleman (FPG) for some sympathy and consolation but he was far too busy exploring the depths of his nose with his index finger to be of any help. The driver meanwhile was trying his best to mow down every pedestrian on the road but he must not have been feeling himself that morning, for he somehow managed to miss every one of them. He also had the odd habit of leaning into the corners in his seat as the car took the sharp turns at high speed. I'm not sure if it was a pyschological thing or a centripetal thing, but I noticed that everyone in the car was leaning into the turns in tandem with the driver almost as if we were all willing the car to make that hairy turn against all odds.
Anyway, I think I must have passed out soon after that because I was rudely woken up to the sound of FPG yelling into his mobile phone in broken Hindi. "We have to meet the party at 2pm. The maal (goods) will be there. You don't come in because they recongnise you. Leave it to me". I risked a quick glance at him to make sure I wasn't in the company of some famous mafia don I should be taking autographs from. I wasn't, but that didn't stop me from secretly willing the driver to go faster than before - the pedestrians be damned! I mean, there is only so much you can take.
In the end, I did make it to the office in time, in one piece, although I was a little worse for wear.
There is a lesson in all this somewhere. Not quite sure what it is though, but I think it has something to do with the Indica being a small car.
