Feature
Driving Test, Indian Style
Taking our driving test in the Indian city of Mumbai
"You turn," says my Indian driving test examiner. "Turn where?" I ask. "No U-turn," says the examiner, making a circular motion in the air with his finger. I glance in the rearview mirror and my interpreter, sitting on the backseat, nods his head. What can I say? I've never been to India before.
I've never driven a Maruti 800 before either, which is so small, my legs are thrust up under my chin. I must look like an oversized crab as I slide the Maruti's gearstick into 1st, ease out the clutch and begin edging my way out into the traffic. Horns blare, cars swerve and nothing seems to slow. In India, if you stop, you've had it.
We edge forward until I'm perpendicular to the traffic. A hundred green and gold taxicabs spear at me from every direction, while a huge, lumbering bus looms ever larger on the horizon. I'm scared. The Maruti has no safety belts, no airbags and just a wafer-thin pretense of a door that separates me from bedlam.
Propelled by fear, I push on, completing the U-turn and easing my way into the torrent of traffic. A U.S. driving test is nothing like this...
The Good Luck Motor Training School and the Maruti
For my passenger, Hasib Khan, this is just another day at the office. For the past 15 years, he's worked as a driving examiner in Mumbai, the bustling metropolis in Southwestern India that used to be called Bombay. Khan typically tests five people each day, passing an average of three.
He works for the inspirationally named Good Luck Motor Training School, which describes itself as "a best and well-organized school with modern equipment at your service." It may well be the best school in Mumbai, but "modern equipment" is surely stretching the point.
The Maruti 800 I'm driving began life in the 1980s as a Suzuki Alto city car, but it's still one of India's best-selling cars. More than 7,300 were sold in December alone, but this is not the finest example. I have no idea what the speed limit is on this section of road but neither does the car. Every time I reach about 40 km/h (25 mph), the speedometer gets overexcited and starts to read 130 (80 mph). I point this out to my examiner, who grins and nods his head.
Cricket and other distractions
Khan gestures for me to turn left, which raises another concern: The car has no door mirrors. "Mr. Khan says that if you had door mirrors, there would be a very high chance of damage," says my interpreter. "They have fitted a bigger center mirror with a wide spectrum of view. That is adequate."
By peering over my shoulder, I manage a left turn and we trundle up a side street, where a game of cricket is being played. India's obsession with this strange game began under British rule and players who reach the top are feted as celebrities. Matches are played in the most bizarre places.
I'm motioned to stop in the middle of the road and Khan asks me to reverse toward a gate. Apparently, this maneuver has only recently been added to the test and it's the reason most people fail. "The test is getting harder," says the instructor. "We are asking for more control of the car." I reverse about 5 yards before Khan nods appreciably and asks me to carry on forward.
Not enough horn
Mumbai is an exhausting place. Even if you become accustomed to the heat and the noise, it's easy to feel overwhelmed by such a concentrated mass of humanity. This is the world's most populous city; it's home to more than 14 million people and has a population density of over 29,000 per square kilometer, compared to around 10,300 in New York City.
At least half of the residents seem to be spilling out onto the road in front of me. Making progress means dodging cars, taxis, buses, motorbikes, hand carts, pedestrians and, of course, cows. Grazing happily from a rubbish skip is a giant brown bovine. Hinduism is the dominant religion in Mumbai and it defines the cow as the Divine Mother of all humans. Cows are sacred and are allowed to wander freely on the streets, which is a worry. Hitting one on a driving test is not the key to eternal happiness.
I successfully negotiate my farmyard friend, but then receive my first official warning from the passenger seat. It seems that I'm making insufficient use of the horn. In India, the car's horn is a critical part of a driver's armor. Most trucks and carts carry a sign saying "horn, please" and every directional change should be accompanied by at least one audible blast of the hooter.
Swinging left at a junction, I jab frantically at the horn button on the Maruti's steering wheel, only to discover that the horn emits a pathetic "poop." If I lived in Mumbai, I'd insist on a car with a manly "parp."
A mighty 37 hp
We're on a clearer stretch of road beside a railway line, and Khan encourages me to select 3rd and then 4th (top) gear. The 796cc, 37-horsepower engine sounds almost excited as we reach the dizzy heights of what must be 30 mph. I glance across at my examiner, who is nodding happily but saying little. He has no notebook or crib sheet, so I have no idea how I'm doing. Can I really be failed for insufficient use of the horn?
Even at this speed, I find myself jousting with overenthusiastic taxis, which seem determined to occupy my piece of tarmac. The road quality is poor and the vehicle's brakes are rubbish. The Maruti brochure is not wrong when it says that the 800 offers "a driving experience that's simply beyond compare."
In the best driving school tradition, the Maruti has dual controls — both the brake and clutch can be controlled from the passenger seat. Khan reckons that an accelerator would be just as useful. "I've been hit many times from behind because learners drive too slowly," he explains. "They're too cautious."
Frightening statistics
According to a local, most Indians feel safe in their cars because they rarely exceed walking pace. It's a nice theory, but it's nonsense. India's accident statistics are horrifying, with more than 85,000 killed on the roads each year, compared with around 42,500 in the U.S. Only China has a worse record.
It's a problem that's going to get worse. Car sales were up nearly 20 percent in 2006 and there's plenty of scope for more growth in a country where only 1 percent of the population has a driving license. In Mumbai, a Maruti 800 costs 205,003 rupees ($4,600). At present, that's about a year's salary for a middle manager, but wages here are rising.
More cars on the road will mean extra work for the affable Mr. Khan, who is continuing his silent vigil as I crawl my way up a busy main road. The Good Luck Driving School's courses are competitively priced. Twenty lessons of 30-minute duration cost a mere 2,300 rupees ($52) and my test has cost the paltry sum of 70 rupees ($1.57).
The verdict
We've now been driving for about 15 minutes and after a second death-defying U-turn, Khan directs me back in the direction of the driving school. That's it — no more tricky maneuvers, no theory questions or highway driving.
There is a lengthy exchange in Hindi before my interpreter reveals my fate. "You need to indicate more and use your horn more," he says. "But it is no problem. You drove perfectly well and very adequately for the test."
I've passed and can now look forward to a lifetime of driving in India. Which is great news...I think.
I've never driven a Maruti 800 before either, which is so small, my legs are thrust up under my chin. I must look like an oversized crab as I slide the Maruti's gearstick into 1st, ease out the clutch and begin edging my way out into the traffic. Horns blare, cars swerve and nothing seems to slow. In India, if you stop, you've had it.
We edge forward until I'm perpendicular to the traffic. A hundred green and gold taxicabs spear at me from every direction, while a huge, lumbering bus looms ever larger on the horizon. I'm scared. The Maruti has no safety belts, no airbags and just a wafer-thin pretense of a door that separates me from bedlam.
Propelled by fear, I push on, completing the U-turn and easing my way into the torrent of traffic. A U.S. driving test is nothing like this...
The Good Luck Motor Training School and the Maruti
For my passenger, Hasib Khan, this is just another day at the office. For the past 15 years, he's worked as a driving examiner in Mumbai, the bustling metropolis in Southwestern India that used to be called Bombay. Khan typically tests five people each day, passing an average of three.
He works for the inspirationally named Good Luck Motor Training School, which describes itself as "a best and well-organized school with modern equipment at your service." It may well be the best school in Mumbai, but "modern equipment" is surely stretching the point.
The Maruti 800 I'm driving began life in the 1980s as a Suzuki Alto city car, but it's still one of India's best-selling cars. More than 7,300 were sold in December alone, but this is not the finest example. I have no idea what the speed limit is on this section of road but neither does the car. Every time I reach about 40 km/h (25 mph), the speedometer gets overexcited and starts to read 130 (80 mph). I point this out to my examiner, who grins and nods his head.
Cricket and other distractions
Khan gestures for me to turn left, which raises another concern: The car has no door mirrors. "Mr. Khan says that if you had door mirrors, there would be a very high chance of damage," says my interpreter. "They have fitted a bigger center mirror with a wide spectrum of view. That is adequate."
By peering over my shoulder, I manage a left turn and we trundle up a side street, where a game of cricket is being played. India's obsession with this strange game began under British rule and players who reach the top are feted as celebrities. Matches are played in the most bizarre places.
I'm motioned to stop in the middle of the road and Khan asks me to reverse toward a gate. Apparently, this maneuver has only recently been added to the test and it's the reason most people fail. "The test is getting harder," says the instructor. "We are asking for more control of the car." I reverse about 5 yards before Khan nods appreciably and asks me to carry on forward.
Not enough horn
Mumbai is an exhausting place. Even if you become accustomed to the heat and the noise, it's easy to feel overwhelmed by such a concentrated mass of humanity. This is the world's most populous city; it's home to more than 14 million people and has a population density of over 29,000 per square kilometer, compared to around 10,300 in New York City.
At least half of the residents seem to be spilling out onto the road in front of me. Making progress means dodging cars, taxis, buses, motorbikes, hand carts, pedestrians and, of course, cows. Grazing happily from a rubbish skip is a giant brown bovine. Hinduism is the dominant religion in Mumbai and it defines the cow as the Divine Mother of all humans. Cows are sacred and are allowed to wander freely on the streets, which is a worry. Hitting one on a driving test is not the key to eternal happiness.
I successfully negotiate my farmyard friend, but then receive my first official warning from the passenger seat. It seems that I'm making insufficient use of the horn. In India, the car's horn is a critical part of a driver's armor. Most trucks and carts carry a sign saying "horn, please" and every directional change should be accompanied by at least one audible blast of the hooter.
Swinging left at a junction, I jab frantically at the horn button on the Maruti's steering wheel, only to discover that the horn emits a pathetic "poop." If I lived in Mumbai, I'd insist on a car with a manly "parp."
A mighty 37 hp
We're on a clearer stretch of road beside a railway line, and Khan encourages me to select 3rd and then 4th (top) gear. The 796cc, 37-horsepower engine sounds almost excited as we reach the dizzy heights of what must be 30 mph. I glance across at my examiner, who is nodding happily but saying little. He has no notebook or crib sheet, so I have no idea how I'm doing. Can I really be failed for insufficient use of the horn?
Even at this speed, I find myself jousting with overenthusiastic taxis, which seem determined to occupy my piece of tarmac. The road quality is poor and the vehicle's brakes are rubbish. The Maruti brochure is not wrong when it says that the 800 offers "a driving experience that's simply beyond compare."
In the best driving school tradition, the Maruti has dual controls — both the brake and clutch can be controlled from the passenger seat. Khan reckons that an accelerator would be just as useful. "I've been hit many times from behind because learners drive too slowly," he explains. "They're too cautious."
Frightening statistics
According to a local, most Indians feel safe in their cars because they rarely exceed walking pace. It's a nice theory, but it's nonsense. India's accident statistics are horrifying, with more than 85,000 killed on the roads each year, compared with around 42,500 in the U.S. Only China has a worse record.
It's a problem that's going to get worse. Car sales were up nearly 20 percent in 2006 and there's plenty of scope for more growth in a country where only 1 percent of the population has a driving license. In Mumbai, a Maruti 800 costs 205,003 rupees ($4,600). At present, that's about a year's salary for a middle manager, but wages here are rising.
More cars on the road will mean extra work for the affable Mr. Khan, who is continuing his silent vigil as I crawl my way up a busy main road. The Good Luck Driving School's courses are competitively priced. Twenty lessons of 30-minute duration cost a mere 2,300 rupees ($52) and my test has cost the paltry sum of 70 rupees ($1.57).
The verdict
We've now been driving for about 15 minutes and after a second death-defying U-turn, Khan directs me back in the direction of the driving school. That's it — no more tricky maneuvers, no theory questions or highway driving.
There is a lengthy exchange in Hindi before my interpreter reveals my fate. "You need to indicate more and use your horn more," he says. "But it is no problem. You drove perfectly well and very adequately for the test."
I've passed and can now look forward to a lifetime of driving in India. Which is great news...I think.
Add A Comment »