My Favourite Car
I’ve been pondering this one for ages now. Initially, I’d be disheartened by my inability to answer as simple a question as it was, and it really is quite a basic thing to ask someone who’s essentially been surrounded by cars his entire professional career. I think, however, that there’s a lot more to it. The more time I spent thinking about it, the more I kept realising that it’s indeed one heck of a red-blooded doozy; that infernal, dreaded, friendless string of words: “What’s your favourite car?”
When I was a wee lad full of hopes and unbridled enthusiasm for loud bangs and pops that accompany downshifts, I wanted one of those cars that looked like they’d just been in a massive tussle with a tornado. The ones that had bits of front bumper falling off, and had styling cues that were inspired by a man whose only available tools were a machete and a broken protractor. Tough, but doable. God, those things were delightful. They sounded obscene, and they screamed the war cry of a person whose sole objective to anything was rebellion. Hunger? Rebellion! Feminism? Rebellion! Classic car design that’s been carefully modernised and brought to the masses? Rebel with a side of recklessness! Goodness, what a time.
Then there was the phase that carefully and deliberately mocked the plight of the uber-rich. Poor lads that had only the S-Class, the 7, and an A8 to choose from. You could see the distaste spewing from every monosyllabic slur coming from their mouths as they explained to you just how much they spent on their rides. But that was it, you know? They bought them because they cost a tiny fortune, and that’s it. This gave rise to stupendously boring colours on cars that deserved so much more. Because they just didn’t care. This gave rise to snooty owners being driven around in cars that they had no idea about intrinsically. Because they just didn’t care. It had a badge, a silver or grey or white paint job and a marvellously dull routine of driving to point B in a sedate manner.
“That’s a nice ride. What’s it put out?”
“$120,000.”
“Wow. That sure is a lot of money. V8?”
“$120,000.”
“That’s a sizeable chunk, mate. Can I drive it? You know, I sort of do this for a living, and I haven’t been able to get my hands on it yet, so this would be a great story for me.”
“$120,000.”
“Sure, but—“
“ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY THOUSAND DOLL—“
“I get it, god damn it. Yeesh!”
“$120,000.”
“How much for a night with your mom?”
“One hundred and twent— wait, what the—“
This very car
And two years ago, and I mean this in the most humble way possible, I’d have a different car parked in my garage every week. I’m not even talking about daily runabouts like a Hyundai Verna or a Suzuki Swift. At one point, I had to split my garage space wisely because there was a Maserati of some kind (I don’t remember which one, honestly), an M5 and an E63 AMG... Poor, li’l me, right? And yet, when my eyes went to the long-term Creta that Hyundai India had loaned me, I wanted seat time in that mid-sized SUV only. Over the other lot. This isn’t an embarrassment of riches, per se, but it’s just the idea of comfort that the heart begins to crave. In this context, comfort isn’t quite a soft cushion as much as it is an idea that welcomes us to something more than anything else. The Creta was easier. I’d got used to yanking that handbrake and holding a slide around a corner. Try as I might, I couldn’t get used to the feeling of sludge in my pants every time I drifted the M5. It just wasn’t comfortable for me. In the Creta, the seats took better care of my 28-year-old-masquerading-as-a-95-year-old’s back, and it didn’t cost me a fortune to fix every time I ran over a nail. It was a good car for the time. For me.
Back in 2000, my father had bought what was, for the time, a monster of a TV. It was 29 inches of pure display and it had one of those weird elongated boxes at the back of it. It looks nothing like the slim TVs of today, and I’m not entirely sure why they were so big back then. Storage space for your assorted knick-knacks, maybe? Who knows. Point is, it was, as some people would characterise it today, ‘The Shiznit’. It was my favourite TV in the world then. And in the grand scheme of things, it was my favourite TV in the world, for a minute. I’d much rather the Chinese water torture today than sit through an episode of anything playing on that box.
Jesus Christ, Raunak, make up your mind, please!
I hope I’m getting across what I mean here. Paranjay asked me to write a piece about my favourite car. I’m sorry, lad. This is the best I could come up with. I don’t have a favourite car. I have a favourite for a moment, and that’s it. I absolutely loathe the question, but out of fondness for the website and the sanctity of this piece, I’ll answer it with this: the LFA. No, wait, the GT86. No, pardon me. It’s the M5. Shite, but the new Turbo S is one exquisite piece of love, isn’t it? Yeah, that. No, hold on. The Giulia. Nothing like an Alfa that brings it to the fore, eh? Oh, but what about the 4C? You can’t forget the 4C. And if we’re talking about the 4C, we have to chuck in a particular Mazda, no? No? Okay, then what about the S2000? ARGH.
