As I resignedly embark on my fourth attempt at picking up the ropes of driving, I am convinced there can be only one way to classify humanity -- those born with a sense of direction and those without. The extreme manifestations of the second type would include people who do not know, most of the time, if they are coming or going and who actually take a minute or two to tell their left hand from the right. It is to the latter group that yours truly belongs. Why just belongs, if ever there were an election to decide the most disoriented person in God's cosmos, I am willing to bet my right hand, er left, that it will be a walkover for me. My significant other has learnt to live with my disability. Every time I ask him to look for something in the right side of the cupboard, he automatically looks for it in the left -- and finds it there! For long I have envied my siblings. They all drive their cars with consummate ease. I vowed this time I would not abandon my driving lessons. I had visions of effortlessly manoeuvring the car, and my sisters and others who wrote me off exclaiming: "Gosh! How we always underestimated her!" But it sure seems my resolve is coming apart even as I enter the third week of my fourth attempt. My trainer has a hard time bearing me. It is not that I cannot master the nitty-gritty of driving, which literally boils down to the mastery of the ABC. I know what each, the Accelerator, Brake, and Clutch, does and how one operates those. But how do you expect me to concentrate on those when I am perpetually overcome by the terror of soon having to decide which way to go, whether to turn right, left, or drive on straight? In a situation where even a moment's indecisiveness could be fatal, I seem to take forever and then some. Much before the car is about to halt at the red light my brain is in a state of high agitation, debating which way to go. And as the red starts giving way to an ominous green, my right foot invariably hits the panic button, also called the brake. All the principles of driving are jettisoned as I bring the car to a screeching stop. An incensed instructor turns the ignition on -- thankfully, he has a set of brake and clutch -- and takes charge of the car before the impatient drivers behind me get abusive. Having sorted the mess out, he pulls over and rebukes me sharply. "Well, what went wrong?" I tell him I wasn't told which way to go. At which he throws an incredibly disgusted look my way and says something about us taking this route daily for the last 15 days. I dig a bigger grave by saying I am new to Bombay (in Delhi my response used to be that I was not too familiar with that route!). He looks at me as if I have the word 'failure' written all over me. Now how do I sit him down and tell him what my problem is? He won't understand. Only a fellow sufferer will understand my dilemma. Do they have a term to describe this condition? And if it indeed is a physiological problem, why are patients afflicted with it not shown the sympathy they deserve? Also, can this be a genetically inherited trait (for long my mother refused to venture out of the house on her own lest she lose her way back!), or is it my unique mental make-up? I have not always been so resigned to my condition. I have taken the help of mnemonics in the shape of landmarks or recollection by association. But nothing works. When it comes to the crux, I am a bundle of nerves trying to go every which way. I hold in reverence people who when giving directions can remember the exact number of signals one has to cross. I have a photographic memory for telephone numbers and birthdays, and can remember, with amazing clarity, entire stretches of conversations I have had with my husband during arguments. But I am such a loser when it comes to knowing my way around. I don't face much of a problem when walking because even if I am moving around without a sense of direction, both figuratively and literally, I am not a potential hazard and I do not endanger the lives of people who know where they want to go and get there. But behind the wheel, I spell TROUBLE. Which is why I have decided that if there ever comes a day when I am competent to drive on my own I will still have a large sticker on the bumper asking others to keep a respectable distance! Besides the mental trauma that driving is for me, there is yet another fallout of being directionless. And that is when people, and there is a Murphy's Law at play here, ask me for directions. How do you tell a harried commuter or a stranger to your city that you suffer from what's-the-word-for-it (someone please enlighten me on the scientific/medical terminology for this affliction)? Besides, who wants to be seen as an ignoramus? So I rattle off complicated instructions, simultaneously praying that he and I never meet again. But more often than not, if I spot someone who looks like he might ask for directions, I prefer to walk with my eyes downcast until I am reasonably confident of being out of harm's way. Meanwhile, those who are aware of my condition continue plying me with remedies: from asking me to loosen up and learn to use the road map to try working on my mental block through meditation. What these well-intentioned people don't realise is that there is no known cure for this malaise. I am now learning to take things a bit stoically. Besides, if I can't drive, I will always be driven! When in Bombay, BEWARE of Purba Dutt! Illustration: Lynette Menezes Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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