Fresh-off-the-boat: Sweating the Small Stuff
It’s a common preoccupation for fresh-off-the-boat immigrants. Every dollar translated to fifty rupees or more (it is 83+ now!)—it’s like the exchange rate was playing pinball with our minds!
So, one day my car was stuck at the servicing center, and I needed a ride home. They only offered courtesy cars for premium brands back then, and I was rolling in a poor man’s BMW—a trusty Honda Accord that I had purchased for my wife Erika. Many of us Indians from work lived in the same apartment complex, a tight-knit community where hitching a ride wasn’t a big deal.
This was in the era before Uber and Ola, mind you. So, I went up to one of them for a lift that day.
“Hey Ravish, when are you leaving for home?” I asked him.
He took a quick peek at the computer clock. It was 5 pm.
“In about ten minutes. Why? Do you need a ride back home?” he asked, still glued to the computer monitor, scribbling through code like he was defusing a bomb.
“Yeah, my car’s still at the service station,” I said.
“Alright, I’ll swing by your desk when I’m ready,” he said, with the nonchalance of someone who hadn’t quite registered the urgency in my voice.
I returned to my desk and waited for him, and in sharp ten Indian minutes, he was at my desk—at 5:30 pm!
We walked to his car in the scorching July heat. The sun beat down on us like an angry god, and the wind felt more like a blast from a furnace. As soon as we entered his car, it felt like stepping into an oven preheated to 450 degrees.
“Can you turn on the AC, please?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
I was pretty sure he heard me, but for some reason, my request seemed to fall on deaf ears. After enduring a few more minutes of sweltering torture, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Hey, does your car’s AC work?” I asked, trying to keep calm and remain polite.
“Are you feeling hot? Here you go…you will be okay now,” he replied. I swear I heard what I thought was the AC button click, but instead of a blissful rush of cool air, he rolled down the windows.
A wave of scorching heat smacked me right in the face the moment the window opened, feeling like I had just stepped into the fiery depths of hell itself.
“Damn! It’s so hot, man! I don’t think this will help. Doesn’t the AC work?” I gasped, now in full agony.
“Of course it does, but why do we need the AC? The car burns more fuel when the AC is on. We’ll reach home in 15 minutes anyway. It will save me gas worth 50 cents! You know how much is 50 cents in Indian Rupees,” he replied with a grin, his seriousness contrasting with the ridiculousness of the situation.
Fifty fucking cents! While I was practically getting slow-roasted, he was fixated on saving half a buck! I wasn’t buying his logic and insisted on the AC. Reluctantly, he flipped it on, looking like I had asked him to donate a kidney. Then he went full-speed ahead, as if he were in the final lap of the Grand Prix, all to save on AC time, leaving me to contemplate the true value of fifty cents. Maybe someday I’ll understand, but for now, I’m just grateful I survived the ride without turning into a kebab.
The Price of Time: A Dollar-Fifty Detour
Not long after, in fact, the very next day, I was met with the sequel! My car was still at the service station, and I had a urgent doctor’s appointment at 1 pm. Desperate for a ride, I approached Sujay, another colleague, for help.
“Hi Sujay, are you busy?” I asked him with a hint of urgency.
“Not much. Why?” he replied.
“Well, I have this doctor’s appointment at 1 pm. My car is still in servicing, and I’m wondering if you could drop me at the clinic?”
“Sure! When do you want to go?”
“Let’s see…it’s 12 pm right now, and it takes about 25-30 minutes to reach the clinic. So let’s start at 12:30 pm?” I said.
“Sounds good. See you at 12:30,” he said and resumed his work.
When I didn’t hear from him by 12:35 pm, I called him up.
“Hi Sujay, are you ready? We’re already running late.”
“Oh yes! Just 5 more minutes, and I’ll be at your desk. I’m finishing up something here,” he replied.
It took him an extra 10 minutes to finally show up, but I was relieved his “five more minutes” didn’t stretch into an Indian Standard Time eternity. Since we were already running late, I suggested taking the express highway. But for some reason, he breezed past the highway entrance and opted for the route through the streets.
“Why did you skip the highway? We only have 15 minutes left, and we could have made it to the clinic in 20 minutes if we took the highway!” I blurted out anxiously.
“Don’t worry, pal. I know some shortcuts! And I’ll drive fast, you’ll get there on time,” he assured me confidently. I nodded and nervously checked my watch, hoping his shortcuts were as miraculous as he claimed.
As it turned out, his “shortcuts” were more like detours through the countryside, and his idea of “fast” was more of a leisurely Sunday drive. We ended up arriving a good 15 minutes late! I was utterly baffled and couldn’t resist asking him why he hadn’t taken the expressway.
“Oh, you see, there’s a $1.50 toll to get on the expressway,” he explained casually.
I wanted to scream in frustration! He had nearly made me miss a crucial doctor’s appointment to avoid a toll that costs less than a coffee! If only the doctor had prescribed me a stress test, this ride would’ve been perfect practice.
