A couple of years ago, when a friend of mine called me excitedly to tell me that
he had just bought a Willys Jeep of early 1950s vintage for about 3 lakhs, I
asked him if there was a history of insanity in the family. He didn’t seem to mind the question as,
apparently, his wife had asked him the same thing on learning of the purchase.
You
see, there are two kinds of people in Bangalore:
Those who work to support their family
Those who work to support their Willys jeep
I
suggested that he apply right away for a housing loan, and add a bathroom to
the jeep and move in, as the rest of the loan would be spent on repairs. He laughed nervously and invited me home to
see it.
When I
fetched up at his home a few days later, he was still excited and showed me all
the documents of the vehicle. The
Registration Book weighed slightly more than the Constitution of India and
there were papers relating to the engine that ran into two hard bound files
(no, I am not making this up. Actually,
one hard bound file). It had a petrol
engine that had been changed to diesel and after the change of a couple of
engines had gone back to petrol which made me wonder if there was a sort of
buy-4-tyres-get-engine-free scheme going for Willys jeeps.
The
vehicle was a neat green in colour, the seats were extremely uncomfortable with
the cushioning dating to the Mughal period and there was a spade and a petrol canister
attached to the back, which I simply couldn’t quite comprehend: if you need to
pour petrol into the tank, a funnel works better than a spade, but I didn’t say
this. The car had 3 gears and the
keychain had a legend which said, “My other car is a Rolls”.
We
climbed in and settled down, which took about five minutes because there were
wires everywhere, one of which gave me a slight shock and my leg kept getting
stuck in them, and then he started the car, but – and here was the crux – it
did not move. It sort-of hummed away
loudly and stayed in the same place, exactly like my labradors, who are,
amongst other things, the laziest dogs above the Equator (my cousin’s dog in
New Zealand is lazier).
After a
few tries, he abandoned the attempt to start it rather sheepishly, but we did
take a selfie together and he sent it to everyone except the Prime
Minister. Soon, he joined an association
of Willys owners which has a President, Secretary, Treasurer and lots of internal
politics and, while the association works very well, none of the Willys
do. Like my Labradors, the Willys tends
to flop and pack up when two conditions are appropriately fulfilled:
There is no mechanic within a ten km radius; and
There is no mobile signal
Early
last year, my friend wasn’t as enthu about the Willys anymore and had gone back
to earning a living. A couple of weeks
ago, I learnt from his wife that he had sold the vehicle, and I was pleased to
be proved just right.
“So,
our friend lost a packet on buying this Titanic?” I asked; a rhetorical
question.
“Actually,
he sold it for a profit of 20k, after including all his costs. He’s waiting to
brag about it to you.”
Now, I
don’t know why I feel so low. Is it
because I didn’t get the last word, or is it because I now know there are so
many suckers around?
