Peace Prize

I deserve the peace prize.
It would take someone more than a little naive to think that I am talking about the Nobel. No, but I do deserve one. Stick with me and I’ll tell you why.
Many moons ago, I gave up driving after being terrorized by a truck driver. Ever since, the husband has been in the driver’s seat (strictly restricted to the car). He negotiates the traffic with the precision of a gymnast. More often than not, the ride is smooth - like a hot knife across a butter slab. Otherwise calm and solemn, the husband is a Gandhian until he encounters crazy traffic.While his driving is smooth, his mind is a mayhem. Because, once he is behind the wheels, he begins to ask weird questions. 

“Why can't people leave their phones while driving? Why do we have so many people on the roads? Look at the pathetic quality of human resource? How the hell can she come from the wrong side? Just because she is pretty? Is there something called ‘the right of way’? Tell me?” 
 There is nothing to tell. Since the answers elude me, I distract him by playing music and indulging in small talk. Honestly, nothing works. 

Flip the coin, and you have my son – the junior. Cool as a cucumber, he doesn’t get irked by the chaotic traffic. But his driving jolts every vertebra of my spinal cord. He could be humming casually when the car screeches next to a Maruti trailer and my heart pops up in my hands. It's not that he is reckless driver, heavens no. Despite having grown on a staple diet of car chasing video games, he respects the traffic lights and the traffic cops alike. And yet, his driving is like riding a carousel on Gurgaon’s crazy highways. 
So I am trapped in a dilemma: Should I go for a smooth drive with ear plugs, or a bumpy drive with dark glasses?

 My worst torment is to occupy the backseat, when the son is driving and the husband is next to him, on the front seat. That is when I become a serious contender for a peace prize.
Anticipating a lecture on pathetic human resource, the driver relies on music. As the trucks and trailers begin to threaten, the prompter embarks on his pet spiel. “Careful. Slow, slow. Avoid the truck. Look, speed breaker ahead.” 

Screeeech!!
Irked by the incessant prompting, the driver steps up the FM radio. Almost instinctively, the prompter reduces the volume and continues with the instructions. On the edge of the back seat, my job is to maintain peace and dissipate the tension  in novel ways.Who wants two sulking men at a family wedding?

So, this time we attended a wedding, I made sure my mother was on the front seat, next to my son who was driving. As in cards, a change of seat might do the trick, I thought. Holding hands, I took the back seat along with the husband. Each time, the speedometer kissed the family approved 70km/hr, I tried to distract the senior by indulging in inane talk. Looking ahead anxiously, he was strangely quiet. But the grip of his hand was an indicator of an approaching jolt. The granny, I am assuming had the ride of her life. Because today when I asked her to come along, she said she preferred a cab.

(This piece was originally published in Gurgaon Times, the Times Of India)