Owners’personalities can rub off on innate objects. My car is so much like me in many ways, which is why we are still together after all these years
I am the proud possessor of a 1972 model, sunflower yellow Volkswagon. We call her ‘laddoo’ not because we have much of an affinity with laddoos, but because that name has a certain ethnic conotational flavour that appeals to us. And yes, Laddoo is certainly feminine. Why else would she still be in service despite her advanced age? Also, Laddoo is not really mine. She belongs to my daughter who has left home. Since possession is nine tenths of the law, I consider laddoo mine. My daughter keeps asking for her. I tell her Laddoo will pass on as inherited property. Longevity being a hallmark of our family, I think the wait is going to require immense patience on my daughter’s part!
Laddoo has a personality. They say that owners’ personalities rub off on their pets; I say they also rub off on inanimate objects. Laddoo is like me in so many ways, it’s amazing. She likes to go at her own speed, one that is not slow and crawling, yet is not in the ‘fast lane’ either. Try pushing her, and she will react. She will throw the accelerator pedal back at you. The remedy lies in stopping the car, squeezing yourself in the fairly tight space between the seat and the pedals, and putting the accelerator back where it belongs. This habit of Laddoo’s can cause much trauma, especially if you’re trying to race her to show her off to some upstart brand new Japanese car. I have learnt, through the patient and persistent training of my car, not to show off. Having to back off in the middle of traffic is not nice.
The foremost concern of Laddoo is discipline. She will refuse to start if woken up after sunset (being old she needs her full quota of rest), and she can’t stand people asking her to do things she does not want to do. My daughter (then just out of her teens) would try and get Laddoo to go fast. All sorts of temper tantrums were thrown; sometimes, the petrol gauge would malfunction; sometimes Laddoo would refuse to start, embarrassing my daughter and requiring a tow back; other times Laddoo would develop mysterious maladies which only certain mechanics and a lot of money could cure. Did this discourage my child? Not at all. Like all youngsters, she was convinced money and the right people could solve all problems. An efficient VW mechanic was located, parts were changed, electrical connections given a going-over, pipes and other body parts were fiddled with. In the end, a strange contraption of strings, a golf club and loud heavy metal music drove the car. Strings, let me explain, were required to pull back the clutch which would stay down when in a bad mood. The club was required to put the accelerator in its place, and the music was required to keep our daughter functioning and to drown out her fairly loud abuses to the car.
When I inherited Laddoo, I never drove more than 40 mph (yes, she still measures in miles... it is SO difficult for old entities to change to newfangled ideas). This was perfect as Laddoo does not mind driving — she just hates being made to compete or being pushed around.
She has rheumatism I’m convinced. Starting in the morning is such a pain. It requires my husband’s help to get her going for the first time. Once we get her to start, the rest of the day is no problem. Actually, I put up with this because I know how difficult it is for me to get myself out of bed in the morning. Every joint, every bone seems to ache. It requires immense will power, once I’ve been on my feet for about ten minutes though, I can keep going for the rest of the day. Laddoo is no different.
Another bit of evidence of rheumatism is that Laddoo likes the sun. She normally gets parked under a dense pergola of bougainvillea. In the winters especially, if she refuses to start in the morning, I just push her out of the house, onto the road and leave her. I guess the combination of warming sunlight combined with the threat of being turned out of the house works. Never has it happened that after standing out there for the morning, she has refused to start. On such occasions, she always jumps to life at the first crank. And yes, the failing memory (of previous similar punishments) is another symptom of age.
Laddoo has class. She is a grand old lady of the roads, the likes of which are rarely seen. My nephew once complained about my ‘old banger’ when I went to pick him up from school in my VW. He was conscious about his friends snickering at the car. I only asked him to make a simple comparison. How many hotshot cars were there in the city? How many yellow VWs? He got the idea.
Class is not something you can buy. It comes with age; it is unique. It brings its own problems sure, but you can’t have everything, can you? You have to pay a price for class. Filling Laddoo with gas is that price, as are her spare parts. But then, medical treatment for the aged is not cheap anywhere in the world. She knows her class, that’s certain. I was parked next to a brand new, shining silver Mercedes one day. Seated at the back of the Mercedes was a lady oozing prosperity. The driver of the car raised his chin a couple of inches when he noticed me and laddoo parallel to him at the traffic light.
Was Laddoo intimidated? Not at all. She just purred a little more loudly. In no time, the driver and the lady in the Mercedes were looking at us in what both my car and I are sure was envy. They were showing off money. Laddoo and I were showing off class. We prevailed.
Like all women, or well, like most women, Laddoo is faithful. She has served me well for nearly six years now, never leaving me stranded. My students know her, admire her, and have made offers for her. She is not for sale, I tell them. I inherited her by default, and she will be inherited after me. Quite often they then want to take a look inside (Laddoo’s seats, mats and interior are brand new... if plastic surgery is available, why bypass it and look shabby) and take a ride.
Over the years, I’ve taken my students for short drives in laddoo. She always rises to the occasion, never failing to start when my students are around (remember, all grand ladies have their egos), and purring extra VW-like. It’s a wonderful sound, that purr. Reassuring, sort of all-right-with-the-world, and let’s-get-on-with-it. Attention seeking that she is, Laddoo will purr extra special if she has an admirer at a traffic light. Not that she’s short of admirers. The men at the petrol pump where I fill her up, the young boys who wash her at my regular haunts, all newcomers to our house... all admire her. And she loves the attention, displaying immaculate behaviour at such moments.
If you see us then, me and my Laddoo, notice the perfect relationship we have — woman and machine — or woman and woman. A word of friendly advice: don’t cross us. I can give you a schoolteacher look that’ll freeze you; and Laddoo... well, she’s the proverbial bred on ‘desi ghee’ variety. One nudge of displeasure from her, and your fancy new car will literally crumple up. Laddoo and I, we are, in the true sense of the phrase, ‘made for each other’ !
Owners’personalities can rub off on innate objects. My car is so much like me in many ways, which is why we are still together after all these years 
