Where there is a Willys, there is a Way

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?