Before my upcoming journey to the United States in summer 2001, I made one last trip to Kashmir from my hostel in Delhi University. Among other things, I had received some free advice on driving. “You should get a driver’s licence before you leave for America. You will need to drive in that country,” a friend said. This was an exciting new adventure. I had never even learned to bike. Growing up in a conservative era, we had always been discouraged from “such things” that normally menfolk did. 

I started taking driving lessons at a nearby institute but it was a pointless exercise.  The man who was teaching me would make sure to keep the transmission control completely in his hands, and I would be sitting like a doll. The dust on the street in July heat was getting to my nerves. Trāvus sa gulicoz (‘Speed up’) — he would blurt out at intervals. And I would breathe deep in frustration unable to be in charge. 

“I don’t want to do this. It’s not helping me,” I told myself and gave up. Three years later, in 2004, I was in Kashmir again. I was determined to get my license this time. It had been three years of my graduate program and I had felt quite dependent in the new country where almost everybody drove and public transport was a challenge. I signed up for a course. The driving lessons went for a week or ten days. The young man teaching me this time would bring his leg across the manual transmission system over to my side of the car so that he could be in charge of the vehicle. He would apply the breaks when needed and turn the steering wheel brushing against my breast. So, I was not really learning anything. It was a total waste of time and money. At the end of the “course” he gave me a “certificate” for the Rs. 3000/- that I had paid.

This was not going to help me at all. I hardly got to drive. I did not get to touch the transmission system. I didn’t even get to practice applying the breaks. My father was least interested in listening to my pleas but my brother sympathized and offered help. For the next two weeks, we went out every morning and practiced at Bagh-e-Ali Mardan Khan and its surroundings. We drove through little alleyways, around the heaps of trash, behind crooked corners, over the potholes and through the stifling inner lanes, bumping on to one thing or the other. At the end of the practice, I felt confident. Even my brother said I was doing very well. 

A few more days of practice, and I went to get the application forms filled for taking my driving test. The Motor Vehicles department at Lal Chowk was overcrowded with long queues at the office. “You really want to take the test?” the clerk said to me with a raised brow. “Yes,” I replied. He looked at me as if I was stupid and handed me the application form. On the day of the test, I went to the designated spot at Sabzi Mandi, HMT. Many people were waiting for long hours before the man ultimately arrived. It was the same guy I had met at the clerk’s counter the other day when I submitted my application. 

“I am starving to death,” I told my spouse who was accompanying me. 

“I didn’t know they would make us wait that long”.  

There was a handsome crowd in the field where we had been asked to arrive. Many young men took the test before I got a chance. Not a single one of them passed. I got nervous. 

“I have been driving for twelve years. No one can pass this stupid test,” a man in his late thirties complained in a jeering tone. This was not very heartening. 

“I have been practicing to drive for several days but this is something I cannot possibly do,” I told my spouse.

Driving forward and backward making “figure 8” on the concrete ground, with plastic poles placed barely at a car-length distance from each other. I managed going forward. My spouse was waving at me in excitement. I also made it backwards, but could not quite succeed all the way through. The tail of my Maruti 800 kissed the final pole at the end of the test drive. Bang! I failed. 

Totally disappointed, I kept looking at the test ground. Suddenly I heard someone talking to me in a hushed tone.

“Madam!” I turned my head and found the man again. “I can still give you a license if you are interested,” he said to me mischievously.  “Without passing the test?” He said, “Yes”.  I got it. I wasn’t willing to pay a bribe. “No, thanks. I will take the test again.” I said, and left, disappointed and heartbroken. 

Only one person out of the couple dozen candidates there that day was able to pass the test. It was a useless test. No driving skills or traffic rules were evaluated and no one was asked to drive on an actual road. Nobody had read any traffic rulebooks. 

About a year later, when I was in the US, I received a letter by mail. When I opened the envelope, I found a driver’s license issued by the Motor Vehicles Department of Jammu & Kashmir. Valid Upto 2024. A friend had spent rupees three thousand on my behalf. Hmmm! I did pass my drivers test finally a few months later — not in Kashmir, but in the United States. That story for another day.

© Sadaf Munshi