BHPian Tharle Subba recently shared this with other enthusiasts: Hello All, Like the earlier piece about my family’s drive to Ranchi, this too is about a road trip. But unlike that one, this isn’t something I look back on from a distance. It still sits close. Uncomfortably close, even now. I have always been a mamma’s boy. Or an Amma’s boy, as I like to call it. That part of me was never subtle. Growing up, her backing was absolute. No questions asked. It meant I got away with far more than I probably should have. As a child, it felt like love. As I grew older, it slowly became a kind of armour – the sort that makes you believe you will always land on your feet. That confidence led me into many adventures. Some harmless. Some not so much. One thing I probably shouldn’t admit openly is how I learnt to drive. This was way back in 2011 when I was still in school and our i20 had just come home. Bapu was travelling most days for work. Nights at home were quiet. Somewhere along the way, YouTube convinced me that driving was simply a matter of understanding three pedals and a gear lever. So I tried. Post midnight, when the house fell silent, I would take the car out. Carefully at first. Then slightly bolder. Everything I knew came from pixelated videos and shaky tutorials – clutch control explained by strangers with thick accents and poor lighting. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t smart. But it worked. It worked for a while. Then it didn’t. Amma found out. And true to form, she didn’t react the way one would expect. There was no anger, no panic. She simply told Bapu. He was stunned. This wasn’t something he had dealt with earlier. Not with my brother, at least. Typical second-child behaviour, I suppose. At Amma’s request, Bapu agreed to teach me properly. Years passed. Somewhere along the way, the roles changed. I became the family’s default driver on road trips. And almost instinctively, Amma would insist on sitting in the front seat whenever I drove. Shotgun, always. Her health wasn’t great by then, but road trips were different. She always seemed better once we were moving. Random conversations and that sense of movement made everything else feel lighter. Then came Covid. The first wave passed before we truly understood what it meant. Months went by without stepping out, except for essentials. And then, one day, Amma insisted she wanted to visit our farm in the Western Ghats, near Kundapura. We zeroed in on April 3, 2021 a Saturday and decided we would return the same night. We set the rules – masks on throughout, breakfast and fruits from home, stopping only for hot beverages at places that felt safe. We didn’t overthink it then. We left early. Very early. Somewhere around 3:30 a.m. from home. The roads were empty, which itself felt strange. Covid had done that. For once, there was no urgency. We drove slow. Let the highway come to us. Somewhere after Chikmagalur, the air changed. Coffee. Pepper. You could smell it without trying. We crossed Sringeri sometime in the morning and reached the farm not long after. Amma barely rested. Just kept moving around the place, one end to the other. The heat didn’t seem to slow her. We took a few photos. Nothing fancy. Just memories, really. The last photo I ever took of Amma. We then headed to Bapu’s friend’s restaurant nearby for lunch. That’s where things shifted. Bapu suddenly developed a high fever. High enough that he could barely sit upright. We didn’t linger around. We finished lunch quickly and started back. The Agumbe ghat passed in a blur. By the time we reached Sringeri again, the heat was punishing. Bapu slept through most of it. Amma sat beside me as we drove towards Chikmagalur. And then, without any build-up, she said something I still hear clearly. She told me I had begun to outdo my father when it came to driving. Told me to keep at it. Then she laughed and said that when Navya came home after the wedding, she would still sit in the front. Navya could take the back seat with Bapu – for their engineering and snack discussions, she said. She mentioned, almost casually, that I should buy a bigger car. One that suited my driving. It was sudden. Completely Amma. I laughed. Nodded. Soon after, she began running a fever too. She fell asleep. From Chikmagalur all the way home, both of them slept. I helped them inside. Tucked them into bed. Just before she fell asleep that night, Amma said, “It was a great drive. Remember, I will always sit next to you when you drive.” I didn’t think much of their illness then. We had been careful. Or so we believed. A few days later, both of them tested positive for Covid. I was tested too. Mine came back positive too. Amma’s oxygen levels began to drop. We immediately decided to move her to the hospital for oxygen support. As she got into the ambulance on her own, that was the last time we saw her. She passed away a couple of days later. It been over 4 years and I still carry guilt. I probably always will. I replay that day often. Tell myself things might have been different if we had stayed home. But I also know this – that drive was something she wanted deeply. The way she spoke to me during that drive about things that were still ahead, I didn’t realise then how much I would hold on to that conversation. If she were around today, she would have been happy to know that we now own Kapi Dhwaja – the Duster she always wanted for us. And every time I drive, I still feel her there. Right beside me. Yes, roads heal. Some just take longer. Happy driving! Read BHPian comments for more insights and information.
