Suzuki Swift Turtle Edition

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Interested in similar work? Drop me a line at santoshrajkumar@gmail.com

Skoda Octavia 2003 Turtle Edition

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Interested in similar work? Drop me a line at santoshrajkumar@gmail.com

My thoughts appeared in the Asian Age newspaper - May 6, 2013

Legend Diary

His parents had decided to walk down different aisles recently, and after his own move out of the country, Sandeep rarely got to spend enough 'octane’ time with his father. Dividing vacation by three was not his best skill despite being a successful accountant. So when they were finally to do their drinks-and-guitar-picks night, he knew it was to be great. And the beer was to be cold.

They did their meet and father-son warm greet before settling into the cane recliners in the verandah. Sandeep and father clinked their half-litre mugs together, and the excellent speakers rasped the air effectively with their masterful JJ Cale ’79 session reproduction.

“The new Royal Enfield Classic’s the stuff, Pa. This friend you once met just bought a black 500, the single seat variant. It’s beautiful, has twenty seven horses, and is a breeze to ride apparently. One-point-seven-five though...”

Image source - www.olx.in

 

The person that belonged to the “Mr. David Dayanand” name board on the gate responded instantly. 

“But it doesn’t sound like the greats. Like that one the idiot across the road had and didn’t know it. But when he wasn’t beating it up silly, remember that thump? Deep and clean staccato is right. These pretty pieces of aluminum foil just don’t sound the part for me unfortunately. Mick Jagger will never lip sync now, will he, son?”

“Well at least these things don’t create oil slicks in public. And not that I need any more attention from the lady folk, but a Classic these days sure gets ‘em.”

“A yuppie puppy is what you’re barking like. Real women don’t want clean fingernails all the time, son. And real Bullet riders had calf muscles and actually knew how to ride in a group. Oh well, twenty seven horses. That’s probably the only good thing.”

“Pa, you ride one first. It’s quick.” 

“Never. It’s not real.”

 

Growing up, he knew his father had always wanted to buy that silver ’69 Bullet 350 from the neighbour collector who had the love for flash rather than love for machine. Unfortunately the bank statement would never allow it the time. 

Pa owned a spotless deep blue '83 Yezdi Roadking now, and still rode it everywhere at sixty-three. He loved the iconic beat from the twin pipes, and was still as enamoured with the kick starter doubling up as the gear shifter as when he first was in the late-Seventies, when the bike saw Indian sun. Sandeep picked up the empty glasses and popcorn bowl and went to the refrigerator. As he refilled all three, his father lit his third cigarette.

 Image source - www.olx.in

“The kicker on Estelle is not retracting smoothly again. Of all the ‘Kings in the world, I get the only example with the errant piece. I hope Saleem won’t have to open the casing up again. I can’t handle driving all the way up there to keep getting the guy off his rear. Also, I’m wondering whether to change her stripes.”

Sandeep smiled, knowing his father would probably keep getting the custom stripes on the Yezdi tank redone till the world ran out of paint. 

“What about that brown? Like the Classic’s Desert Storm Brown? That’ll go real sweet with the blue.”

“You’re too conventional thinking, I’m going light blue next time.”

“You’re too old. And I’m hungry. Let’s hit the grub.”

Eshwari, his father’s house help since the split, had produced a delightful beer-friendly accompaniment of dosas and chicken curry. They sat down on the table and chomped silently when the Cale CD ended. Sandeep got up and picked Santana’s Black Magic Woman album out, knowing it needed to be played at least once for his father when he had a good share of the funny water.

“Nice one, son. Was the Lammy outside Food World in good shape?”

 

“I still haven’t seen the classic Lambretta red as yet in real life Pa, would you believe it? Four now, but all blue. Tchah! But yes, the 150 was in pretty decent condition. The colour should have been different of course, but the guy obviously takes care of it. The only rust I noticed was on the mirror stalks and she didn’t smoke too much. Unlike you.”

 

Author illustration

“Don’t worry. I’m down to twenty a day now. So relax.”

“That’s a credible effort, Pops. Your heart will only get stronger.”

“Watch that lip, young man, or your new Triumph might mysteriously ride itself away.”

Sandeep laughed and helped himself to a drumstick. Chewing the succulent home cooked meat, he was reminded of how much of an expert in take away food he had become off late. Wouldn’t want to say that to him though, he thought as he wiped the last of the gravy off his plate.

“I’m going to crash, Pa. Long day. The dosas were great.”

“You sure you don’t want a night cap?”

“Not tonight, Pop Tate.”

“And I thought I was the one slowly dying. Okay, granddaddy of thirty one, get some good shut eye and we’ll talk Bonneville before you leave. Bloody hell, she's almost as good looking as Estelle! Good to have you here, son. Good night.”

“Me too, Pa.”

Sandeep walked into the hall where a mattress was laid on the ground under the fan. He was soon asleep, but not before being momentarily saddened again that his father would never accept a new set of wheels from him. The old man of the house downed another couple quietly before trudging heavily to his bedroom. Mugs left outside and some unhealthy coughing later, the small home was dark and silent.

Both generations of the Dayanands grabbing their respective forty winks that night were 'professional' biking enthusiasts. They were blessed to share a passion that always provided simple, pure joy during their short but invaluable stints of together time. Tonight’s memories of icy brews, classic bike banter, crisp dosas and rock music would be fiercely clung to for the future, no doubt.

Sandeep surfaced early next day in the best mood he'd been in for a long time. As he closed the door behind him leaving his father's snores in the distance, he vowed to make time to improve his math skills.

Maruti Suzuki 800: An Ode To The Hatch With No Match

The Maruti 800's glorious production run of over two decades drew to a quiet end last year in April. Despite Maruti Suzuki's valiant efforts to hide the car's age by providing it with as many minor cosmetic jobs and facelifts as Simi Garewal, tightened emission norms meant the 800 would need a non-financially-viable redesign effort. And with the Alto doing such impressive work, Maruti Suzuki had the replacement labour it needed to finally end the 800's run. But when it first arrived on the scene, this little Maruti broke all sales records in the Indian market with its unique blend of efficiency, reliability and easy-to-drive USPs. The ancient Ambassadors and Fiats that the Indian consumer had to previously put up simply with had no chance.

Although a 0-100km/h time of around 18 seconds spoke otherwise, the 800 was still a fun car. The light and direct steering sent fairly precise inputs into the driver's hands and if the gears were worked hard enough, it would surprise you into a tiny grin in the hills. But since most of the buyers of this car were previous motorcycle owners wanting to move up into the car segment, performance was not the issue. The 800 was the ideal city car, with its small size and highly efficient 796cc, three-cylinder engine unit that ran an amazing 16 kpl in stop-start city traffic and hit the mid-20s on the open highway. It could be parked in small places and squeezed through slightly-wider-than-auto-rickshaw-gaps in traffic.

Image source - www.carcabin.com

Perhaps the most major drawback of the 800 was safety. Protection stopped at seatbelts and the driver's common sense, making it a little safer than a motorcycle. Okay, that’s exaggerating matters a wee bit, but the standard brakes wouldn't provide adequate retardation too. It made a huge difference with the optional brake booster fitted, despite sales and mechanic folk annoyingly disputing this fact. The ABT Maruti staff that delivered the Rajkumar family's much-loved white example did, however, finally accept this to be true.

The 800 had only 37 horses to move its freight and thus power became an issue very quickly. With a full load and the air conditioner running, even a slight slump in speed necessitated a gear change or two. The dash was clearly made of the cheapest possible plastic, and amenities were as Spartan as Mallika Sherawat’s dress sense. The build quality was nothing to write home about either - rattles and squeaks developed rather early in the car's life.

Space was an issue because of the car's tiny dimensions, with it being able to seat four people and very little luggage.  Seating five meant the rear passengers had to be really good friends… The small 12-inch wheels meant that one had to grow an extra eye for the road, because unexpected pot holes or undulations would throw the car off intended course.

Maruti’s kickstarter to Indian domination constantly reminded that you owned one of the cheapest cars in the world. That being said, here was one of the most reliable cars in the market that was fun without the modern hassles of over-assisted steering or electric window failures. The 800 did take you back to the basics, but one can’t help having a soft spot for the big-hearted small car that enabled over 2.5 million buyers realize the joy of hassle-free motoring.

Motorhead - One Day I Will Race

It takes an average of three years for the average person to complete the average undergraduate degree. However Piston does not believe in the law of averages. Therefore the degree of my qualification is definitely of an under graduate nature. The reason for this is that I have always had two left feet, one intent on putting itself in my mouth and the other intent on stepping on the gas. The foot-in-the-mouth disease came courtesy two years of a three-year e-business and marketing degree. A second education attempt has been two years of journalism and mass communication studies. Until now, this mixed toe jam was my diet of choice. But one foot has always been on the gas.

People have always joked about me not getting my degree before I corner forty. But cars have always been my calling. We all know our calling, but still insist on trying and making other things our mission, be it Internet or marketing busyness. A carb person I will always be. Not just a carburetting person, but a car breathing person as well. Because a person starting off from standstill in second gear, sleeping on the clutch, not choosing the ‘right’ indicator, all make my blood boil. However, since this happens most of the time in someone else’s car, the boiling blood is forced to get air-cooled while I sit back and try in vain to enjoy the drive. Okay, maybe I know how to drive a car very fast. It’s a start.

But I like seeing the chequered flag. That is the only kind of finish I like. Oh, amongst minimal panel gaps and Finnish rally drivers too. Seeing that flag means it’s a job well done. Hundreds of gear changes at first, three thousand gear changes at best, is the only job I can and want to become the best at. Exhilaration is what I feel controlling a quick front-wheel driver, and a start with the hot hatches or sedans will surprise several. I’d sincerely study Newton’s forces and live the exhilaration of the higher torque downshifting from fourth to third for a fast right hander. The only mass communication I want to study now is the communication between the car mass and yours truly. Jarno Trulli. I think I truly got to know him at Monte Carlo in 2004.

F1, F3, F8h… the last one reads faith. I don’t care what the drive is at the moment. As long as it’s a car. Whether it’s only one circuit or circuits the world around. I have always known about cars but now want to put that knowledge to the test. If you don’t let me drive, I’m afraid I’ll drive you crazy, trying in vain to better lap records trackside in my humble Alto, whatever the odds. Yes indeed, waiting for that zimbly impassible day.

Kava And Sakei Got Me High

Image source: www.flickr.com

I turned her on. She needed a little coaxing, but soon gave into my twist. The rev-needle shot up and she sounded incredible. Like a much more powerful RD 350, with a smoother, freer flowing sound through the shortened sports exhaust. Not like sweat-free John Abraham’s superbikes, but an awesome something I had never experienced before.

The year was 2003, and she was into her twenties already. Which meant she came with a big overhauling bill. The twin brake discs were on their last turns. And she would overheat as regularly as my ex-girlfriend and had a leaking quartet of cylinders which accounted for oil reserves in the garage that even Shell would’ve been proud of.

But she sported a 40-odd bhp output which needed respect, especially when she hadn’t heated up too much. That’s more than our Maruti 800 possesses, to put it in perspective. But the 800 has 4 wheels while she hardly had two. Meaning the previous owner had chucked on some cheap, ultra-anorexic tyres before ownership was transferred. When at a fair clip, they would nervously twitch like Bill explaining Monica to Hillary. And the handling wasn’t anything to write home to either. I couldn’t bank on the turns as much as I would have liked to, because of the severely limited grip, armoured tank-like weight, and lapsed insurance.

But could she accelerate in a straight line. Ask my friend Myron. The poor guy learnt very quickly to hold on at the green lights.  And she could out-accelerate most cars with ease to the 100 km/h mark. She was also a looker, with a blue and gold metallic paint job, much like the Subaru WRX colour coding. And there was the added thrill of being part of the small biker crowd in Brisbane, where bikers nod at each other sharing mutual respect possibly for having the guts to ride where average speeds are so high. Imagine that happening in India. We’d be head banging, in all senses of the phrase, all over the country!

My ’83 Kawasaki GT550. Not many wanted a courier motorcycle, but I had one and loved it. Man, did we share some good times. Lass impresses, hitting 150 clicks racing a Daewoo Nubira, seeing that kid’s Grand Canyon-wide eyes when I pulled up behind his car, and such. Too bad this was such a short-lived experience, because I left Australia two months after I bought the bike. And since there were no buyers before I left, I was sadly forced to donate her parts to the local junkyard. I used to love her, but I had to kill her.

Image source: www.classicracer.com

Alto’s New Ego

Hey man, who is hero? Over 21,000 numbers of the item in question had been booked within a week of its launch, and that’s gravy by any sales industry standard. Maruti’s Alto 800 could quite possibly be the meanest utilization of local talent since the Mahindra XUV500 project.

The daring, yet warranted freedom gifted to Maruti’s Indian design team has produced a genuinely decent looking car. Inevitable initial ho-humdrum that accompanied the first spy pictures has now been quite vehemently doused by universal “Let me see too!” whining.

Could the Alto 800 be the country's most genius smoking hackney since the Nano? The signs point that way. The name, for example, combines two of the most successful bits of automobile nomenclature this nation has latched on to, namely, 800 and Alto. The applied experience and maturity of Maruti’s think tank wisely chose that Alto 800 christening; it knew fully well three generations of the sub-continent’s motoring population would germinate instant recognition. While the Nano will make sales, the Alto 800 will also steal sales.

The briefs of the 470-crore project are rather obvious.The Alto 800 needed to stand on its own four wheels, yet invoke sufficient memory of its predecessors. It’s got a stance slightly higher, but still reminiscent of a Maruti 800 on cross-ply rubber. For expansion, Google “Volkswagen Polo Allroad”. Them “too high” or “unnecessary” mutters would be forgotten very quickly when you spot that remarkably professionally humped bump at the last second, when it’s too late to slow down.Especially as a novice driver on a novice salary.Rest assured everyone would still see their car flash before their eyes in that situation, though.

Not taking anything away from the well-deserved successes of the A800’s previous brethren by any means, but they were adapted for our market. Practically perfectly, but still...Things have reversed with the Alto 800 as with trendsetter Mahindra previously, and future export adaptations will stem from local expertise. Familiarity with this importance is breeding customer contentment.

 

Image source - www.marutisuzukialto800.com

Fact is that this little star gets most of its design philosophy from the A-Star. That’s probably no coincidence. The A-Star is known as the Alto in other world markets; Suzuki probably realized an entry level hatchback interpretation might be good for international business. An Audi A6 to an A4, it’s the same thing. Let’s try Asean, the Middle East, Africa, and South America for now, the Jap giant mused.

If one was forced to rate the A800 on lass appeal, alas, it would probably score a seven, tops. But, good sir, those very lines are elements of a potentially dynamic canvas that could and should spawn believable limited edition variation runs.

Mandatory gripe? Sure. Why that C-pillar is so ridiculously thick is a bit of a mystery, since there isn’t, and almost surely will never be any form of electronic parking assist offered standard with this car. If function over form isn’t possible, form over function should be a given.

We could beat around the diamond-studded bush forever if we wanted, but yesterday’s accessible Maruti is thankfully still today’s accessible Maruti. The same money gets you a better drive now, but without losing its morals. And that’s a huge relief, really.

The Royal Enfield Story: A Tale Of Two Singles

At around half past three on Tuesday afternoon, Mohan knows he’s very near closing an important deal for his airline, which would get him out of his unfamiliar low sales rut. Just before the day's end, he loses out to the rival player, this after three days of persistent sweat and sweet talk. His calm expression hides a downed heart as he says bye to the guys, and rolls back home on the 5:46 AC, nodding slightly to a Steve Winwood playlist. It’s been a rough day. 

Mohan ducks in and out of the shower, then heads down the elevator into the basement, and walks towards a little glint of chrome in an unlit corner. As he nears the two wheels he’s proudest in the world to call his own, a small smile melts away all his previous intestinal by-product descriptions of the day. A decompression and two kicks later, and he’s off to buy bread at Satya’s bakery twelve kays away, after deciding against getting it delivered. Because somehow that beat his silver Bullet orchestrates never fails to soothe his stressed neurons.

Chicken and cheese sandwiched for supper, he sits on the single couch and places his prized book on the coffee table, feeling the familiar nirvana of slowly turning the glazed pages of that particular Royal Enfield collector’s edition hardbound…

It was around the time Sir Arthur Conan Doyle introduced Dr. John H Watson to Sherlock Holmes when the gods smiled down on the vision of a sturdy frame for the bicycle that would mature into a rather famous motorcycle. In the early 1880s, George Townsend Jr. had evolved the "Townsend Cyclists Saddles and Springs" company from a producer of a local inventor’s single coil saddle to a manufacturer of complete bicycles remembered for their robust scaffolding. Around ten years later, after bagging a valuable contract to produce precision rifle parts for an arms factory in Enfield, Middlesex, the newly-named-and-controlled "Eadie Manufacturing Company Limited" commemorated the occasion with the release of the Enfield bicycle. The link to, pardon the pun, 'royalty’ began when the specialised company producing these bicycles became "Royal Enfield Manufacturing Co. Ltd".

Image source - www.hembrow.eu

Royal Enfield’s initial foray into mechanised vehicle manufacture began with three and four-wheelers with an unimaginable gross output of 1.75hp. Quite soon after the hype and hangovers of the biggest parties the right side of the 19^th century had died down, French designer Louis Goviet penned the first ever Royal Enfield motorcycle. With the remarkably small Minerva engine mounted over the front wheel, it went into production immediately in 1901.

The front-engine design soon lost 'traction', since the first wheel was overtaxed for grip around corners due to excess weight up front. The engine was moved to behind the front wheel on the frame and came to temporary rest under the rider’s rear. Royal Enfield then furthered a division purely for production of cars and motorcycles called the Enfield Autocar Company. The Alldays and Onions Company took over proceedings of the soon cash-strapped Enfield Autocar from 1907 up until 1924, when the name “Bullet” was first adopted for car models produced under “Enfield” and “Enfield-Allday” badges.

Image source - www.royalenfield-paysbasque.com

Where there is a wheel, there is usually a way to compete. In 1909, Royal Enfield produced a quality set of two wheels that used a strong 297cc, Motosacoche V-twin motor coupled with a belt drive. The V-Twin went on to become very successful, winning prestigious reliability trials like the “Edinburgh to London” in 1910. Two years later, the Royal Enfield Model 180 with a 770cc JAP engine and sidecar competed convincingly in the famed Brooklands races. Some versions were exhibited with a machine gun fitted to the sidecar to garner public awareness of their versatility. This publicity did not ‘stunt’ the company’s growth by any means, because when World War I ensued, strengthened Model 180s realised huge demand not just from the UK, but France, Belgium and Russia as well.

Royal Enfield Model 180; image source - www.motorcycle-74.blogspot.com

However, the motorcycle we so fondly know actually spawned in 1934 when 350cc and 500cc displacement iterations were released with exposed valve gear - the first true Royal Enfield Bullet. Post-WWII in 1947, Enfield reintroduced the 500 Model J with kinder-to-spine front hydraulic damping system. This economical workhorse sold good numbers, while revolutionary rear spring suspension was introduced on Bullet 350 OHV and 25hp 500 versions shortly afterwards. Wonders never ceased with Enfied around that period, it seems, as the manufacturer is credited with producing in 1959 what was possibly the first superbike in history - the 700cc Constellation Twin. Some Enfields even crossed borders into the US, rebadged as red-liveried Indians. The Yanks, however, did not take too warmly to the immigrants.

Efficient Japanese motorcycles were to become all the practical rage around when the world’s best concert ever took place in that ranch near Woodstock, New York. What was to follow could have been forecast the moment the first frugal import was successfully tested. The demise of British Royal Enfield occurred finally in 1970 when their Bradford-on-Avon factory was shut down, meekly aping the Redditch facility’s end in 1967.

Mohan pours a stiff whiskey and lights his post-meal smoke.

India, meanwhile, had more than twenty years of familiarity with the good ol’ thumper before Britain’s Enfield fabrication ground to a halt. 1955 saw the government order an 800-strong consignment of Enfields that were to be mainly pressed into border patrol service. Working to lower production costs, the Redditch firm chose Madras Motors as partner to assemble British-built components into the largely unchanged Bullet 350s under the “Enfield India” title.

By the late fifties, the Indian offshoot was manufacturing Royal Enfield components locally after purchasing the necessary tooling. Enfield India became wholly independent producers of Bullets in 1967. The company kept churning out examples of these singles for almost thirty years, till Eicher bought over the company in 1994, and obtained the rights to the “Royal Enfield” name the following year.

Unfortunately, there was a long time when a Bullet was not “Made Like a Gun” like its original 1893 trademark advertised. Worrying oil spills occurred anywhere they were parked more than momentarily, and the itch to ditch lube from any supposedly-sealed joint had the knack of creating brilliantly random black streaks on just-laundered attire. Not too much complaint was made at the time, since there really wasn't much choice in the market at the time to threaten shifting of loyalty to a competing bike maker.

However, demographics of buyers have changed especially over recent years. Younger, ‘sophisticated’ buyers in spotless chinos began demanding improved-everything, adding to the safe and more silent customer base of yore. Enfield sat up and took notice of its shoddy workmanship which turned out to be a good thing for the company. Royal Enfield can’t keep up with current demand and is ramping up production capability. Steps in the right direction are constantly being made, and though most Bullets today still ride on that basic 1960s design, they are exponentially more reliable, and easier to ride and live with now. A lot of buyers presently even use them as daily commuters, something that even the bravest enthusiast couldn’t have been bribed to do previously.

Image source - www.flickriver.com

The relatively-simple-to-modify Bullet sparked local chop shops aplenty. Results, sadly, have not always been entirely delectable due to bank statements often taking precedence over quality personalisation work. However, a handful of low-profile mod-gurus do still take pride in keeping national customisation colours at full mast. Aftermarket jobs like silencer replacements to attain that perfect pipe length and pump out the right acoustics are almost unwritten requirements of new Enfield owners today. Let’s not forget world-renowned names like Swiss Enfield distributor and tuner, Fritz W. Egli, and Englishman Andy Berry, who transcend geographical boundaries to showcase their skill and passion on the Bullet canvas.

The Royal Enfield portfolio today has a dozen single-cylinder models in 350cc and 500cc displacement variants, true to their unique mechanical upbringing. The engineered protagonist holds the longest continuous production cycle for any motorcycle in our spinning sphere’s two-wheeled history – the Bullet has become an obvious stalwart in the Motorcycle Hall of Fame. Glory put aside, there quite simply isn’t an alternative to that iconic bass resonance sending jitters down the chassis of predominantly characterless new-age competition during a nonchalant pass on open tarmac. Since often parroted are phrases like “glorious history” and “timeless heritage” in the same breath as “Bullet”, this unflinching single-cylinder icon warranted a small excavation into Royal Enfield’s time capsule.

Author Illustration

Mohan swigs the last remnants of his second drink, clinks the stubby glass down on the balsa table, and reads the handwritten epilogue on the back cover he remains deeply rooted to:

A family in the nineties,

An ailing man in his fifties,

And a Bullet from the sixties

Finally went separate ways.

It was an emotional goodbye,

But the next meeting’s on lay-by.

A stretch, a scratch, and few steps later, he’s under the covers with the fan at full tick. It’s one in the morning and he’s exhausted, but fulfilled. Mohan’s day improved by night, when he grabbed those valuable couple of hours to exercise a blessing he knew was his – being able to sample and understand why only some legends will be truly fit for royalty.

@turtletorque

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Of True Ambassadors

Ram Banerjee was through. His shift had just ended, but where any other worker would have been glad to leave the factory, he walked to his white Maruti 800 with a slightly heavy heart. Ram was employed as a floor manager for the Hindustan Motors factory in Uttarapara, West Bengal, and was closing in on twenty-three years with the company.

His tenure with HM had begun in 1989 on the assembly line where he was tasked with fitting and then checking suspension assemblies. Ram’s excellent character and leadership qualities were soon recognised though, and he mechanically moved up the ranks to floor manager, where his ascent had plateaued over the last six years.

Ram was laid off today. He was not all surprised though. After Ambassador sales and production plummeted steadily post the mid-1990s, he knew he was lucky to have been held on for so long despite being a broad shoulder of the ever-dwindling workforce. Heck, even he had sold out, he felt, after selling his treasured and mechanic-friendly Mark II Ambassador three years ago in exchange for Mighty Mouse. Having to work for a different manufacturer after all this time was going to be tough with new sensitivity and loyalty yardsticks.

It was late and he knew Manju, his wife, would be asleep. They hadn’t had time to do the grocery round yesterday, so he decided to pick up some south Indian takeaway, and forget the day in front of the idiot box.  He reached home and slid into the cane recliner, not hassled by table etiquette or a plate at this midnight hour. The television crackled on and ironically, three channel flicks down, an Ambassador seemed to be the unusual apple of the camera’s red eye.

Turned out it was a historical tribute of sorts to the Ambassador and, despite the crappy day, Ram smiled inside. If ever there was a true fan, it was Ram. He had known no professional life outside the gates of the Hindustan Motors factory, but was still fiercely loyal to the carmaker. He began his career at the factory the day after his eighteenth birthday and bought a ‘68 Ambassador with his first chunk of savings at twenty-three. He turned up the volume a little and opened the banana leaf package of idlis and coconut chutney.

A baritone voice narrated, “If ever there was an Indian automobile that deserved the status of ‘Grand Old Lady’, it would have to be the Hindustan Ambassador. Until only recently has this iconic car been one of the chief means of personal transport across the country, from the average family right up to the top brass of government. While new-age cars have almost sent the Amby into extinction, few motor vehicles invoke nostalgia like this four-wheeled national symbol.”

Hm. "Might actually be worth a watch, this," Ram pondered as he took a sip from the water jug.

“Hindustan Motors may claim that the Ambassador has evolved since its inception, but fact is the car has hardly changed from the 1950s, save the engine transplants and minor styling alterations. Despite changes of nomenclature, from the first Mark I model to the current Avigo, the basic silhouette has been retained across the range. And why not? At one stage, the Hindustan Ambassador was the best-selling car in India, with its Uttarpara facility mass producing at full tilt. Interestingly, in 1800ISZ guise, the Amby even had the impressive claim to fame of being the fastest production car in India.”

Ram knew that was true. He recalled trying to chase a 1.8 Ambassador driver that cut him off the road and unleashed some nasty vocabulary. After three kilometres of trying to keep up in his 800, Ram gave up. Old won gold that time.

“However, the biggest selling points of the Ambassador were its spaciousness, high comfort level in the rear and the good ride quality for the time. Even the multitude of luxury automobiles now available in the country have to try really hard to emulate the back seat opulence that the Amby so popularly provided. This legend ferried pretty much the whole of India, from the average family and their cat right up to the top brass of government.”

A detergent commercial came on air, and Ram rose to get his cigarettes on the table. He lit one and drew deeply, and sank back into the chair.

“While the Hindustan Ambassador began life with a side-valve motor that produced little over 35bhp, the latest iteration of the Ambassador is available with a number of engine options: a 2000cc black smoker that produces 56 PS, and the Isuzu 1800cc petrol that produces a healthy 75 PS, with both powerplants available in CNG form as well. Called the Avigo, it also sees modern fittings like bucket seats, power steering and a factory-installed air conditioner.”

“Modern fittings are what you see in new bathrooms. Idiots. No mention of the Amby’s origins?” Ram knew that all Ambassadors were based on the Morris Oxford III, while the previous generation Landmaster was tooled from the Morris Oxford II. He fondly recalled his father’s black Landmaster with its characteristic downward-curved boot shape and rudimentary two-spoke steering wheel. As a kid growing up, he used to try spotting differences in replacement Ambies. He remembered noticing the fins on the first Ambassador which were all the rage in the late 1950s, and how the grille and headlamp covers had morphed. He hated the confused design attempts on the current Avigo however.

The narrator solemnly concluded, “HM’s iconic Ambassador seems to be wheeling down the green quarter-mile. Most of this generation would have driven or been driven in an Amby sometime in their lives, so it’s sad that fewer and fewer Ambassadors seem to be around these days. No doubt inevitable, because there are better cars available now for less money.”

He turned the box off.

There are better cars, yes. But they will evolve faster than you can change from second to third in steadfast ol’ Greenie. His mind lifted as remembered the time his Ambassador’s rear slid out unexpectedly on a wet ghat road and how he almost didn’t catch it...

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Meals Or Wheels?

It’s almost taboo these days to say you enjoy driving your vehicle because the leather surrounding your month’s bread is bound by ever-frightening fuel pricing. A sad era has dawned on petrolheads; tanking up a four-wheeler seems set to become only a luxury for our next-of-salaried-kin.

There are still some of us who can’t resist opening up the throttle on an empty piece of bitumen, but we are an endangered species. Restraint will eventually dictate even the most stubborn never-change-up driver, lest the most hated gauge in personal transport today announce that famous empty threat…

Author illustration

We grew up when petrol was cheap, streets were empty, and exhaust fumes were dirty. And didn’t we love it! Screaming engines with only two strokes and blue smoke powered the majority of motorcycles on the road, while an Amby that gave you anything over seven kilometres to the litre was deemed acceptable.

This allowed spontaneous family excursions to ‘Selvam Bakery’ thirty kays away to buy their fresh bread, instead of hopping around the block to the neighbourhood market. Those were indeed the glory days of affordable fuel.

Now we perform ballerina impressions on the accelerator, our vehicles seem greener than trees, and kids order home delivery. It’s all depressing, really.