Whose car is it anyway?

The wife and I went to look at a new car the other day.

 Of course, we had two different intentions – I wanted to just look at it, she wanted to actually buy it. Showrooms have changed since I was a teenager. They are plush spaces with no less than 400 employees all dressed in the same colour scheme like school girls.

Also, a whole lot of people are involved in the purchase of the car. There’s a car manager, a money manager, an extras manager, and a manager’s manager. Also before any decision is taken, the manger will always have to check with someone in Chennai, who will in turn check with someone in Delhi.

For e.g. I would say, “May I put the handbrake down?” The car manager would reply, “Just give me a day or two to check with Chennai who needs to inquire with Delhi.”

Then we were shown all the colour options. Ocean blue which looks like blue; near asphalt grey, which looks like grey; aquamarine green, which is clearly green; snowy mountain white, which unbelievably is white.

When I tried to explain to the salesman that in my time all these long-named colours were known just by the colour, he laughed and said he’d have to check with Chennai who’d be in touch with Delhi.

The extra features are another ball game. They include silver bells that can decorate your tyres and a thin neon sign that you may put up on the highway, so that nobody runs over you while you are fixing your car.

This information terrified me: a) I don’t like going on a highway; b) I don’t want to be fixing a car I just bought; c) I definitely don’t want to depend on a thin orange neon sign from being run over. When I put this to the car manager, he told me he’d talk to Chennai, who would in turn get in touch with Delhi.