Car Seva

Exactly a year ago, I took my seven-year old car for its annual service.  I look forward to this day about as much as you would look forward to a new virus taking Corona maami’s place. 

The service technician walked around the car like a frowning radiologist and was the most demotivating guy I have seen in 2020 (and that year has had no shortage of such folks, so he dominates a highly competitive field). 

“Sir,” he said, “there’s a dent here,” This was so small that it took an electron microscope inside a binocular to view it.  “Leave it alone,” I weakly suggested, feeling that sinking feeling you get when you are feeling that feeling, if you see what I mean.

He then told me that it will rust in the rain, and the door will be eaten from within and will fall off when I am on a highway at top speed and that I will then be on an Instagram video the next day with the caption, ‘…and CAN YOU GUESS what happened next to the car behind this hideous monster’.
Actually, he didn’t say all of that, but you get the picture. 

Then, the headlights had a side scratch of 2 mm that could diminish lumens sufficiently to distract oncoming aircraft, and the top red light at the rear (I did not even know there was a top red light at the rear) was not working which was a threat to no one in particular (for a change) and the sunglass compartment – which I have never used other than to once hide dog food from Oscar (who is the greediest Labrador in the world, and let this be the last word on that issue) – was unhinged and the press-button to open the back door caused a slight noise that is only heard with sound recording equipment used by AR Rahman and the back window wouldn’t roll up right into its terminal socket which could, if the car was next to a Nasa rocket launcher, generate a wind tunnel effect and one back tyre had a width that was 1 mm below recommended operating standards on German Autobahns in winter.  He also noted that my rear-view mirror had insulation tape on it, which, in levels of sheer depravity on the Crime Index, ranks next to assault.

I took a break, announced bankruptcy-in-advance on WhatsApp and asked Anil Ambani to join me for a Buddies-who-are-bust beer. 

Then he saw the big scratch on the side door at the back and the eyes rolled upwards unbelievingly.  I told him to not do this job till I got a housing loan sanctioned (the Finance Minister had just announced her twenty-second economy-revival package in which cars are classified as movable houses).

“Are you sure?” he asked, with a look of Don’t Blame Me If You Are Fined For Driving An Ugly Car Near Cubbon Park and turned away in sheer disgust at the sort of customers who infest Bangalore these days.

The only good news is that the housing loan has been approved, so I can first fund that dinner with Anil bhai, who is the only chap more bust than I am at the moment.

post script: Every story should have a post script, so here it is: whatever be the quality of work done on your car, never (repeat, never.  Just in case you missed this, NEVER) rate it anything less than five-star (repeat, 5*.  Let me get this right: star+star+star+star+star) .

If you do not follow my priceless advice, you will receive the following (free of charges):
a) about 27 phone calls from customer service, of which twelve will be in the final over of the finest T-20 that you have ever seen.
b) each such call will begin with an apology that sounds as fake as Trump's hair colour.
c) one call from Head Office - Customer Service, Gurgaon, asking you politely for your address, so that you can be kidnapped.