Driving class 1-Aug 22

The driver’s seat of a car is not one of the places I traditionally find myself in, since I am one of those people who are mechanically retarded. Hence, I tend to leave driving to the experts, namely hubby dear or sundry friends kind enough to offer me a lift.

Thanks to hubby dear being laid up for 6 weeks and being neither a toddler nor a geriatric, I was the one arm-twisted into learning how to drive the family car.

Wednesday morning, after the requisite prayers to Lord Ganesh to keep me and the other souls unfortunate enough to be on the road the same time as I from harm; I landed at the driving school for my very first class.

Fifteen minutes later, and some 2000 odd rupees poorer, I found myself in a white Santro attending what was euphemistically called “Theory Class” of my driving lessons.

After ascertaining my linguistic abilities in the local languages, my driver began explaining the mysteries of a car engine to me. He first taught me the basics; A for accelerator, B for Brake, C for clutch and was threatened with dire consequences should I forget.

All I remember of the lesson was that a dynamo “translates” energy to a battery. And that the “Wifer” should not be run when there is dust on the windshield.

After a mind boggling array of facts were slipped past me at the speed of light, I was allowed to go home. And boy, was I glad the ordeal was over for the day!!!

RADIO GAGA

I have a normal person’s dread of hospitals. To add to it, I seem to end up spending unseemly amounts of time in them. So much so that it has now reached phobia proportions. Imagine my consternation when, last Sunday, I was forced to sit around in the radio diagnostics department of Manipal hospital waiting for an MRI on hubby dear’s knee. The fact that the department is located two floors below ground level only made it more ominous.

There were three patients in all, along with their respective spouses. A plump, jolly lady turned to me and said, “Are you one of the Hiremaths?” You look a lot like Mrs. Hiremath. So did hubby dear look like Mr. Hiremath too? I was dying to ask.

Even though I assured her I wasn’t Mrs. Hiremath, she proceeded to tell us, in spite of her husband’s vehement protests, what she thought of doctors and their advice. This, in spite of her son being one of the clan. The nurse then came up to her and asked her to get into hospital clothes in readiness for her CT scan. After a good 15 minutes, we heard a yell from the changing room. Could you go tell the bla***d nurse that nothing fits? She then marched right out in her everyday clothes. The nurse came back and told her, “Ma’m, you have to get into hospital clothes, those are the rules.” Pat came the reply, “Is it the hospital rule to diagnose patients half naked?” Needless to say she went in to get her scan in her own clothes.

The next person the nurse chose to talk to was the couple sitting next to us. The lady was in south Indian attire. With a slightly superior air she asked (in English) “Do you understand English? Which language do you speak?” The lady in question was so shocked at the abruptness that she kept mum. The husband, quite irritated by her attitude declared, “She speaks nothing but French.”

I think I am going to have to change my perception of hospitals as dull, dreary places pretty soon.

The next person the nurse chose to talk to was the couple sitting next to us. They lady was in south Indian attire. With a slightly superior air she asked (in English) “Do you understand English? Which language do you speak?” The lady in question was so shocked at the abruptness that she kept mum. The husband, quite irritated by her attitude declared, “She speaks nothing but French.”

I think I am going to have to change my perception of hospitals as dull, dreary places pretty soon.