The author’s car. Picture by Sanjoy Chattopadhyaya

Living alone in a metro as big as Delhi makes mobility that much more difficult. Option A: Acquire a boyfriend with a car who’s willing to drive you wherever, whenever. Option B: Wait interminably at bus stands and then be jostled by our north Indian brethren. Option C: Get fleeced of your hard-earned money by the unscrupulous, untamed autowallahs.

And then, there was Option D. “You should buy a car, you know,” the boss would often toss at me whenever he caught me walking in late. “Yes, but do you remember how much you pay me?” I muttered. “It’s not too much, you know. You could get a super deal for a second-hand,” advised Tujo, a colleague who roared into office on his 1000cc Yamaha. But the last straw was Shankar, the office bearer. “Gaadi kharid lijiye. Kya hai isme, sabhi gaadi kharidte hain. Mere chacha ke bhatije…” So buy I must — beg, borrow or steal.

Evenings and weekends were spent poring over ads: Second-hand Santro/Alto/M800, pre-1990, excellent condition… I ran up phone bills of Rs 4,000 a month trying to fix up test-drives. By the end of six months, I had tried out all second-hand cars in south Delhi, as the owners or sellers watched me drive with inexplicable amusement. But I was getting nowhere. And all the while, I was staring longingly at the brand new models in the sprawling showrooms in Connaught Circus. I would press my nose against the glass till I was given baleful glances by attendants inside.

How much would it really be? Couldn’t I take a loan and work around the EMIs? So I calculated my meagre savings. Will Rs 25,000 do for a down payment? What loan tenure am I looking at? Five years, seven years? Will the car even survive for so long? Did I have enough to pay my rent and my EMI? And, of course, the fuel! Sleepless nights, frantic calls to friends and long conversations till they hung up on me. I even accosted my female boss in the office loo. “You know, I was thinking of buying a car and ummm…” She had sympathy. “Okay, come over to my room,” she said.

Soon the whole office buzzed with this bit of gossip. “Hey, you buying a car?” Sarcasm dripped from Sumita, the pretty designer who drove a brand new Wagon R, leaning over my cubicle with her designer churni draping over my comp. “So what you buying sweetie? An 800? How sweet, the car would really look cute on you, baby.”

Once I decided to buy a new car, one problem was solved automatically — that was the problem of plenty. I couldn’t afford anything else but the Maruti 800. And that too stripped of all frills. No A/C, no metallic colour. Until I was told I was attempting the impossible. “No A/C?! Are you out of your mind? What will you do in the Delhi heat?” shrieked a friend. “Why, I will roll down the windows and drive fast?” I suggested. An A/C is a necessity, not a luxury, I was told sternly.

So Maruti 800 it was, with an A/C, and in supreme white. It not only fit my budget, if fit into the tightest parking lots. It gave an enviable mileage of 14kmpl. It was large enough for my luggage, with enough space for my mother, my friend and my dog. It was my own Merc, which came for a princely Rs 2,40,000 on road in the July of 2004. And till today, it has driven me around without a single breakdown in Delhi and in Calcutta, not counting a couple of deflated tyres and a dying battery.

I love you, M800! Happy birthday!

Anasuya Basu

Do you have a Maruti 800? Write in about your car at t2@abpmail.com