Dear Britain,
I am at a traffic light, absent-mindedly drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, when a hand pops into my peripheral vision from the left. An index finger points at the light which has just turned amber and I hear the words…
One? Two? Three?
Nobody coming…?
Go!
Peculiar as the cue is, it does the job of startling me out of my reverie and I put my foot to the accelerator as soon as I hear “go”. I feel like a teenager again. Learning how to drive. Except, I know how to drive. Except, this time, I’m being reprimanded as well. Except, this time, I’m 38 years old.
It’s my first driving instruction class on a cold morning in late November 2021. It hasn’t gone well so far. The instructor insists on making my name sound like a dehydrated fruit.
Pruna! Good morning! Uncle Mike is very happy to see you today!
It’s Purna. I say.
Yes! Pruna! Comes his emphatic response.
He also insists on calling himself Uncle Mike. I am Mike, but you can call me Uncle Mike.
And so there we were, two strangers with strange names. The world was still dark. And I was fumbling around an unfamiliar car. We had started with what he called a pre-moving off check.
Left mirror. Left blind spot. Rear-view mirror. Right mirror. Right blind spot.
Indicate.
Final check – left, centre, right mirror. Quick swivel to check the blind spot again. And finally, manoeuvre.
My head swivelled about like a malfunctioning robot trying to perform the steps of an intricate breakdancing routine. I had no idea what I was doing and why – so far out of my comfort zone that I tried to memorise the choreography instead of understanding why. The rebel in me rose to the occasion. I had seen people drive in the UK – my friends, my husband. No one performed this ritual. I tried to bring it up.
Yes! Once you pass, you do what you like, Pruna! If you want to pass, you follow what I say.
We had been in the car for ten minutes and I had been told off thrice already.
Mike had asked me to adjust my driving position to how I liked it as I sat in the car. But was watching me with growing consternation and bewilderment as my seat kept reclining. All the way back, like a sun bed.
What are you doing?
I used to drive with my seat reclined all the way back. I said, a little sheepishly, but brought my seat back up quickly as I saw his expression.
I had also enquired – gently – if I could drive barefoot. I had only ever driven a manual car in India. I don’t exactly remember how it started – driving barefoot – but I think it had something to do with wanting to feel the depression of the clutch and its release as intimately as possible. The habit took people by surprise, even in India, so I wasn’t surprised when Mike shot my request down.
And so there I sat in my straight-back seat, feet fully clad, hands stiff and arms awkward at ten and two on the steering, scowling under my mask, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. My first class was not a success. Mike was strict by his own admission. I am 20% more strict than the examiner. But for your own good, so you can pass.
I struggled with practically everything. The right turns. Giving way. Moving off. Even following the road signs. India had no road markings, dear Britain. There were road signs, but I had never paid them any mind. I could stop anywhere. Start anywhere. Speed limits were meant to be ignored. If it’s 20, we stay at 18-19, said Mike. I could not come to terms with the specificity and strictness of it all.
At the end of my first class, Mike said – We will need 20 classes. Total of 40 hours, including the hour with the examiner on the day of the test. At the end of my first class, I wasn’t surprised I needed 20 classes. I had thought it would be a simple case of applying everything I had learnt in my theory test, which I had passed in August 2021 with top marks. Five classes, I had thought to myself. Instead, I was faced with the enormity of re-engineering my entire operating system vis-à-vis driving.
My first ten classes, almost 20 hours with Mike coaching me, I saw marginal improvements but I was nowhere near confident about passing the exam. On the plus side, in all the hours and wintery sunrises that Mike and I spent together, we started developing a bond. He began to feel like Uncle Mike. Like family. It was the same with his wife Laura who handled all communication with Mike’s students. She sent me messages before every class. Reminders on our scheduled classes. Changes to our schedule. “Good morning Pruna. Uncle Mike is waiting outside.” Always followed by a rose emoji. Always.
In the car, during those lessons, we chatted about everything. Family. His five daughters and one son. My cat and my husband. How, if he could do it again, he would never have children, even though he couldn’t stop talking about them. His Jordanian origin. My Indian origin. Bollywood. Laura, his wife. How her snoring kept him awake at night. How his cheat code for sleep was to take half a Paracetamol before bed on some nights. “But I do not recommend you do it, Pruna, just because Uncle Mike does it,” he said, suddenly worried as though he were giving bad advice to one of his daughters.
I began to look forward to the classes. Look forward to seeing the now familiar grey Mercedes A-Class pull up to the road skirting our apartment block in the city. Look forward to his cheerful greetings cutting through the quiet and dark winter mornings. Mike began to feel safe and comforting.
Pruna! Good morning! Uncle Mike is very happy to see you today! Pruna was very happy to see Uncle Mike too.
But had you put me in a car just then and asked me to drive to pass the test, I would have failed. 16 possible GPS routes. 3 possible ‘follow the sign’ routes. Little room for error. On paper, 15 minor faults did not seem like such a bad deal. But in my head, the ‘faults’, major or minor, did not compute. My brain had its own hard-coded rules that had been firing for decades. The UK driving system required me to demolish these and create new ones. Like asking my brain to read and write from right to left instead of left to right. There were short circuits. Misfirings. Cross-fire between the old and the new. And poor Mike and I were caught in the middle of it.
Halfway through, I knew I needed to pivot my approach. Take control of the situation, not let it control me. Become the driver, not the passenger. My strategic brain kicked into gear. 20 hours in, I had done all the popular routes at least once with Mike. But the information I had gathered from those hours of driving just lay there in my head. I had to structure it. Categorise it. Interact with it. Apply it. Identify patterns. Pre-empt pressure points.
I started christening the routes to help me relate to them. The one where we crossed a big police station was called the police route. The one with many mini roundabouts was called the mini roundabout route. The one where we went through forests was called the forest route. There was no creativity there. Just simplicity and ruthless efficiency. I started carrying my notebook to the classes. After each route, I pulled over, safely of course, and wrote down the pressure points.
And it all began to come together beautifully. By the 16th class, even Uncle Mike was impressed. You’re driving like a princess, Pruna. I glowed inside. I felt comfortable behind the wheel. Measured and calm on the road. The last three classes were magical. The driving was easy and effortless. We both knew I was ready and well-prepared. Now everything depended on test day. And as Mike himself said, luck had a small part to play in it.
Finally, nearly three months after our first class, test day was upon us. It was 06:40 am on Friday, 18 February 2022. Zen, our Silver Bengal, sat perched on our breakfast counter, his wide eyes locked in on me as I shrugged into my long North Face jacket. I held his gaze marvelling at how his eyes seemed to do both – convey his emotion and embrace mine at the same time.
Anticipation. Excitement. Hope. A sprinkle of madness. I saw in Zen’s eyes a reflection of my own feelings. What were the next two hours going to entail?
The first hour on test day, Mike and I went through some ‘show me, tell me’ questions, executed a few parking manoeuvres and made our way to the test centre well ahead of our 8am start. We waited in the car in the parking lot of the centre. I was calm. Mike was anything but. The pass rate at this test centre was an abysmal 33%. Mike fussed and stressed and moaned about how the examiners took pride in failing people. I found myself trying to calm him down. Then we saw six men coming out of the small building and I saw Mike spring out of the car. They’re here. Best of luck, Pruna.
I saw one of the six men come towards me. Mike gave me a thumbs-up. I could only assume that meant he was happy with the examiner I had been allocated.
My examiner was called Kevin. Although we were both wearing masks and couldn’t see each other’s faces in entirety, I saw warmth and a twinkle in his eyes which put me at ease. We started with the ‘show me, tell me’ question which was easy enough. Then we stepped out of the car and I was asked to read a number plate. I was well-accustomed to spelling my name phonetically, with how uncommon it was. But on that day, the phonetic word for ‘Y’ escaped me. It was the last letter on the number plate and I rummaged around in my head desperately trying to find it. Conscious of the seconds ticking by, I settled on the first word I could find and blurted in nervous excitement –
Y for Yaaa-hooo! Just like that. Almost as if I were ending the word on a ridiculous sneeze.
I heard him laugh. I felt the colour rise in my cheeks beneath my mask. And we sat back in the car.
40 mins went by in what felt like 4 minutes. It was a familiar route – the forest route. The manoeuvre was forward bay parking. I was asked to pull over several times when safe, legal and convenient. I was asked to perform an emergency stop. I knew all the speed limits on the route and stuck to them diligently. Before I knew it, we were back at the right turn into the test centre. It was raining. I could see Mike standing outside under a brolly. There was a car approaching from the other side, so I had my indicator on and was waiting for it to pass. I know Mike was holding his breath, praying I wouldn’t get too eager. Praying I wouldn’t make a mistake. Shortly, I turned in and parked where the examiner told me to. I shut the engine and turned to look at Kevin.
How do you think you did?
I thought I did ok.
Do you think you passed?
I think so.
You did pass. And with only 4 minors.
He gave me a quick summary of my driving while I sat there grinning from ear to ear under the mask. Then he scribbled on a piece of paper – my pass certificate – and asked me to sign. My mind went back to my ‘autograph’ 20 years ago and I chuckled to myself.
When I stepped out of the car, Mike was jumping up and down like an excited schoolboy. He knew I had passed, having seen the certificate in my hand. We performed Mike’s ritual of taking a photo of the student holding up the pass certificate at the test centre. Hurriedly though, as the rain was pelting down by then. And then, for the first time in three months, Mike had me sit in the passenger seat and drove me home. We chatted, laughed and reminisced like old friends. We said our goodbyes at the entrance of the apartment block and shook hands solemnly.
Goodbye Princess Pruna, you have made Uncle Mike very happy today.
I shoved my pass certificate into my pocket and bounded up the stairs to our apartment on the fourth floor. Both the husband and Zen the Silver Bengal were in the living area. Zen ran towards me, his tail upright, slightly curled at the tip, just the way it always was when he was happy and excited. The husband looked at me searchingly.
Well…?
I failed.
You’re lying.
I saw his expression go from questioning to suspecting. Then concern.
It was right at the end. I didn’t give way to an incoming vehicle on the other side. I thought I had enough time.
The confusion persisted on his face comically, still trying to process his emotions – somewhere in between disbelief and empathy. I burst out laughing. Taking the now crumpled certificate out of my pocket, I broke into a spontaneous dance.
I passed. I passed. I passed!
I knew it!
In the next ten days we bought our first car in the UK. A racy red Mercedes A-Class. We named her Sherry. She carried us through three years of adventures and milestones – but that dear Britain, is for another letter.
To this day, when I am waiting at a traffic light, I can hear an echo in my ear.
One? Two? Three?
Nobody coming…?
Go!