The husband lunged from above me to hold the handle and applied brake to the scooter. He was just in time else I would have hit another two-wheeler. There were equally angry honks from behind me. But I looked into the scooty mirror to check that my hair is in place. I smiled at the other drivers who looked menacingly at me and the husband.
It was the 23rd day of my scooty training by the husband. As someone who hates to step out of the house in the evenings after work, he had shown remarkable patience. He was trying to teach me to ride a scooty. Sounds simple, but it was far from it. I was in my late thirties, mildly over-weight (that’s what the BMI checking folks said) and never learnt to ride even a bicycle. My only tryst with driving was when I rode my tricycle with my two year old sister inside the one room kitchen apartment of my parents. And here I was trying to ride the scooty with no concept or idea of any kind of driving. In short, I was driving my husband nuts. I did not know when to accelerate, or when to slow down, when to brake or how to handle the numerous bumpers on the Indian road. To top it, I was not even riding in a straight line, I hated honking, and forgot to put the indicators. Or when my husband screamed, I would take my eyes off the road to look down at the handle bar for the switches. After the 23rd day, he finally gave up saying he has no patience anymore to teach me. Even a cow would have learnt to ride a scooty by now. It led to a big, lets say disagreement, fueling my desire to learn to ride. Continue reading