Kishore Singh: Lost cars, lost youth

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My wife was in Jaipur, it being second Saturday the kids were home and hopefully doing the things they are supposed to do, and I was at peace with the world on appointments that would keep me away from them for the bulk of the day.

At some point my son had called to inform me that he would be going for his tuition class, and when was I expected home? "Not till the night," I confirmed, "but we'll have dinner together."

As it happened, the last appointment for the day fell through, and I was able to reach home a few hours before I was expected. Parking the car, I noticed my wife's car was not in its usual slot. Had it been taken for servicing? If so, my wife would have told me.

Besides, I distinctly remembered seeing it in the morning when I left for work. The penny dropped. Seeing his chance, my son had obviously "borrowed" it to take to class, even though it was a distance of less than a half kilometre.

I went in, took the spare key, and walked across to his tutorial sweat shop where, expectedly, the car was parked. In just a few moments I was home with the car, determined that my son should be taught a lesson about borrowing without asking, especially since he knew that permission would be denied.

In what was seconds after my son's tuition class ended, my mobile rang. An agitated voice begged to inform me that "strangely, Mama's car appears to have been stolen". "From home?" I asked innocently. "Er, no," he confessed, "I had a lot of books to carry, so I'd taken it to my tuition school." "With whose permission?" I bellowed. "But it's no longer here," my son evaded the question. "Then find it," I roared, and hung up, reduced to a fit of giggles.

Over the next two hours, my son must have called umpteen times. He was sorry. What should he do? He'd blocked traffic in the area, he was making enquiries, somebody wearing blue and white had been seen driving away the car. "Keep at it," I urged him, "else I'll have to call the cops and tell them you'd specifically taken the car without anyone's permission." "You'd do that?" he gasped. "I'd do that," I assured him.

More time passed, and a few calls later, he reported, "The owner of the teashop opposite the school says it was a very old man who pinched the car."

What nonsense," I castigated him, "he wasn't old, the teashop owner doesn't know anything." "How do you know?" my son was interested in finding out. "Because no old man would steal a car," I said, "it doesn't make sense." Moments later, my son called back: "Someone else agrees it was an old person, a grandfatherly type," he added hopefully. "I think you should come home," I told him.

He was back in only a few minutes. "I'm sorry about the car," he said again. "How dare you call the person old?" I remonstrated with him. "But that's who the people saw," my son said. "I'm telling you he wasn't old," I insisted. "You're wearing blue and white," my son suddenly noticed, "did you drive the car back?" "So what if I did," I said, "I'm not old."

"You mean," he said, "I've been sweating it out in the heat looking for the car, when you'd got it back home all along?" "Old?" I expostulated, "Great witnesses they'd make, calling me old." "Imagine," said my son, "my own father stealing his wife's car." "Shameless," I shouted, "do I look old?" "I wouldn't know," said my son, "but at least I know what a car thief looks like."