Driving you crazy - On driving licences and "note"able obsessive compulsive disorders

It was one of those days that remind you just how hot the city of Chennai is, and exactly how monumentally inefficient and antediluvian some government bodies are. So there I was standing in the dizzying heat, in danger of getting dehydrated, running over the events of the morning. The usual haggling with the autorickshaw guy, the instructions from the “Driving School Principal” (Man, what a fancy designation :P) about where exactly the driving test was going to take place, and how the driving licence (for those lucky enough to get it the same day) is akin to a ‘gold biscuit’ that had to be protected with one’s life.

And here I was, at the huge open ground that used to be a bus terminus, amidst roughly a hundred driving licence-hopefuls. Not even insects dared to stir in that enormous open space, as the merciless sun bore down heavily, sucking energy out of each one of us in glee.

The ‘inspector’ was the god of the day. It was he who would officiate at the grand ceremony, put our individual skills to test, and it was him indeed who each hopeful who have to propitiate to attain the grand prize.

I darted a glance around, wondering if it would seem too out of place to pull out my notes for a quick revision before the test. Then I decided not to risk it. Fact is, I was way too embarrassed by my carefully made notes for the driving test. The previous evening, it had come as a revelation to me that I was loth to enter any hall (or open ground) of examination without notes to revise from. Which was why I had made flowcharts and bullet-pointed reminders detailing every possible driving manoeuvre that I would have to exhibit to appease the god of licence-granting.

A sceptical friend of mine, nonplussed by my note-taking openly showed surprise, to which I sheepishly mumbled how I could not stomach the thought of facing any exam without self-made notes. To which, he (always prone to histrionics) asked with a flourish, “It is a serious obsessive disorder that you harbour! What of the grand exam of life, then? What of the test of time? How do you propose to make notes for those?” I was too preoccupied with my test to respond. I am now armed with a well-crafted reply about my daily notes in my diary about myself, my interactions and my self-experiments based on empirical observations of the impact of various forms of interaction, my timetables and schedules and.. oh well, this will keep for some other time.

Let me continue the chronicles of the much sought-after driving licence. The scattered crowds began to draw closer to a point near one wall of the ground and I supposed that the Great One had indeed come. Minions of assorted driving schools approached him with a bunch of filled-in application forms each of their respective candidates. Upon which it came to be known that another of the expected greats had played hooky from work, and hence a quarter of the crowd was to be sent back for want of an inspector. As luck would have it, I was one of those chosen to seek assembly at a later date. Arguments (from me), counter-arguments and promises (from the hapless driving school instructor) later, I left, fuming, indulging in the favourite Indian pastime of ‘blaming the system’ – decrying its inefficiency, its lack of concern for the average citizen and other such banalities.

To me, what was unendurable was the thought of another morning of being subjected to the sweltering heat of that open ground all over again.. ughh!

As I geared up for a repeat adventure the next week, I was so gloomy that I believe my cloud of gloom could have eclipsed the still-inexorable sun. And I couldn't even be bothered to carry my notes with me.

The entire charade repeated itself. The gathered crowds, the interminable waiting, the gods who could choose to make an appearance as and when they pleased, the (just) 2 hour delay in their appearance, the dust and sweat and the sea of hope.

There was also the some “big man”’s grandson, who was respectfully escorted to the office to have his photograph taken for the licence card (sans driving test, of course), the imperious elderly lady who secured her daughter’s (presumably) licence with a large denomination (equally presumably) currency note pressed into the hand of the inspector’s sidekick… and perhaps other such spectacles that escaped the notice of my harried self.

Two hours later, post my successful exhibition of my driving skills, as I offered my not-so-smiling countenance for a photograph for my licence, my overwhelming relief erased all signs of fatigue of body and soul, and soreness of feeling for the Indian way of ‘getting things done’.

In the end, my precious notes were of little use, as tests of display of driving prowess were not sought to the extents I had imagined. The way it always used to happen in my other exams. And no, this did not throw a damper on my note-making enthusiasm :)