Barefoot

Mohan taught me how to drive. Mohan, who struggles with bipolar syndrome. Who spent his whole life numbed, muted by the lithium. After years of odd jobs, he found something steady at a local leather factory.

We climbed into the sofa-bench front seat of our rusty, trusty fiat. I was at the wheel. He rode pillion. I felt like a million bucks. Hands on the broad wiry steering wheel. Mohan, quite wiry himself, started to tell me about the different kinds of leathers they have at the factory - all kinds, every conceivable animal, skinned, dried and tanned.

I could feel the cold smoothness of the leather seat make contact with the backs of my thighs. My shorts too short to act as barrier. The feeling of the wire the manufacturer used as a seam, to delineate the bounds of the seat. It would burn a line into my calf in the heat, textured in the nature of the fabric.

First come the shoes - you take them off, socks and all, so the balls of your feet sit right on the satisfying curve of the middle of the metal pedal. Check the mirrors, turn off the lights. Shift into neutral, press down the clutch and turn the ignition. The engine sputters, and then roars. The tremors travelling through the timbres - his roar is now yours. My feet, an organ of perception.

The heart now thrumming, I press the flat viscose and plastic tabs; turn on the right indicator. The bulb, half immersed in rainwater, flashes, and pops - the glass shatters. We roll onto the road - I’m tentative. The car has the wheelbase of a rickshaw, but the inertia of a lorry. I take a wild look in the mirror, checking my blind spot after I make the turn, too late for any chance of change. It’s India. The cars, unfazed, route around me. Mohan, in his duality, says, “Hm”.