Now that I’ve told my mum, I suppose it’s safe to share here – I’ve been riding a scooter for a couple of months now, and I love it! It’s quick, fun, and gets me from A to B much faster (even faster if driven like an Indian, which sometimes means taking to the pavements). Best of all, it saves me the constant test of patience and bargaining with auto drivers.
If you’ve ever read about or experienced Indian roads, you might think this is less “fun” and more “utter madness.” But I can assure you – armed with a horn and my wits – I’ve been perfectly safe so far. No accidents… yet.
Last month, I decided it was time to make things official and get an Indian driving licence. Mostly, I wanted to avoid any hassle from the local police. I hired an agent to help me with the process, thinking this would make it quick and painless. How wrong I was.
Early on a Saturday morning, I arrived at the test centre – tucked away on the second floor of a rundown concrete shopping complex. I paid my 30 Rs (about 42p) and was directed to a waiting room that looked like it hadn’t been touched since it was built. The crumbling walls were stained from years of sweaty, nervous people sitting in the same spots. The ceiling fans didn’t work, the windows were boarded up, and the air was thick. Not exactly the ideal place to spend a Saturday morning.
In the corner, behind frosted glass, came the sounds of what seemed like an ancient computer driving simulator – either for practice or, more worryingly, for the actual test. Judging by the state of the room, I feared it might be the latter.
After about 30 minutes perched on a small wooden bench with a group of curious young boys watching me, I was sent to join a queue of about twenty people. They were studying a wall of traffic signs, including hazards like cows and men pulling carts. For some reason, I was pulled to the front of the queue and found myself in the doorway of an office belonging to the man with the all-important ‘approved’ stamp.
The office was filled with stacks of paperwork, a large desk, and images of Hindu gods draped with jasmine garlands. I began speaking, but my optimism quickly faded. In India, things are rarely straightforward, but with enough forms and patience, you usually get somewhere. Not today. Today was a flat, direct “no.”
Baffled, I went to find my agent, who didn’t understand the rejection either. Was my driving so bad that they could tell just by looking at me? He pulled me aside and, surrounded by a crowd of sweaty men, asked for my phone number. He told me he’d try again later, when there were fewer people, and hinted that “more money” might help. I agreed, made my offer, and left quickly.
I never heard from him again – but I did get my money back. The Indian licence remains a challenge for another day.
