Let me tell you about our very first four wheeler. She came to us on a summer afternoon driven by my grandfather. There was considerable excitement at home and she nosed her way down the path leading to the old house. Accompanied by many shouts of glee, she purred to a stop under the cavernous Gulmohar tree in the drive.
She was perfect, in all respects and on every count. A mild beige smiled up in the sun while we crowded around examining her in the greatest delight. The next thing of course was to take her out on a ride. She cruised out of the drive way on the wings of an angel. This car was to be our faithful companion for many years. Even when the Maruti 800 fever hit India, we remained smug in the belief that our Premier Padmini was by far the more superior car. This in spite of frequent breakdowns and a fortune spent on fuel.
Cars had personality at that time. She was not just a mode of transportation, she was part of the family. A living, breathing member, I might add. The day she left us was one of great sorrow and heartfelt grief. No other car we bought ever lived up to the magic of that first car, the embodiment of another roof on four wheels. The only permanent roof in those days compared to the other houses we shifted in and out of.
And so the days roll by and other cars come and go. But the Fiat remains one of the best buys we ever made, not because of performance but because of the bond she shared with the family, which will always be special.

Yesterday one of my worst fears were realised.Was told I had to get a typhoid shot in view of the upcoming deprivation trip. My earliest memories of getting an injection are some of the most traumatic I can remember. The parents would, usually on the pretext of getting me a book, drive me along the wooded lanes of NDA. I would be lost in anticipation and blissfully unaware of the impending ordeal. Until my father made an innocent turn into the woody lane leading to the military hospital. He usually did this at the very last moment, car swerving dangerously in what he hoped would be an unnoticed move by the slowly widening eyes in the backseat. (Alas and Alack, he only succeeded the first time)Leaping foward I would demand to know what kind of subterfuge was underway. Both my parents would murmer something about going to call on an officer that lived in the lane. Although by now I would be sufficently suspicious, being of a foolishly optimistic sort, would pacify my creeping doubts by believeing the parents couldn't fib so shamelessly and repeatedly on this count.
Till finally Waterloo would be upon me. How well I remember that awful turning into the heavily cemented structure that was mh, NDA. Seconds later, the door would open and my parents, adopting a mixture of coercive ruthlessness and guarded sympathy would pull me out of my seat. The usual beseechments would then pour themselves out. "Please mama, I wont get tetanus, its only a little scratch, let go my leg you##%$#@ (ward boy) I promise never to get hurt again. How come every one else could use coffee powder(old Munnar remedy) and I have to go through this aaagggoonnnyyy?
Without getting into the details of the more undignified scenes that followed, let it suffice to say that I fought tooth and nail and gave more pain than I got... EVERYTIME.
So yesterday when the old gnawing fear was visited upon me again,I thought to myself, nothings changed. I'm still the same old blubbering fool of long ago, the only improvement being that the parents didnt have to use physical force this time. However to add insult to injury(quite literally)they took me to a pediatrician!
When the dreadful vial did its fiendish tilt, in slow motion over the cold steel of the needle, I braced myself and looked the other way. Only to see a small boy staring at me in wonder. He looked like he was on the verge of giggling!!! This wouldn't do. It was allright when there was nothing to lose. Now I had a little something called adult poise to worry about. Dazedly I gazed back at the needle. Awfully small thing after all.
I won this time.