He drove it home from a showroom in Paldi one Sunday afternoon. We went downstairs, stood around it, and I had to admit it looked stylish, like one of those boxy European sedans I’d seen in German or Italian movies. “So what do you think?” he beamed. “You like it? Now we can drive to Baroda whenever we want and visit Hemant Uncle. I’ll teach you and your mother how to drive, and you can go wherever.” The exterior shone like a trophy; the light-brown leather interior had that factory-direct smell; the dashboard, the gear-stick, everything glossy, untouched. “It’s really something,” I said. I thought of Ahmedabad’s traffic—a stock car rally, a zoo, and an open-air market all mashed together—and knew the Premier wouldn’t stay so squeaky clean for long. “What do you think?” my father asked as Anand peeked inside. “Does it have AC?” “It’s got everything,” my father said, snapping his fingers. “Get in everyone. We’ll go for a drive.” My mother brought out a tiny canister of vermillion powder, mixed it with water in a silver tray so it turned into a dab of paste, then dipped her finger into it and inscribed a swastika on the hood of the car.
