Take the Third Left and Continue…

Homecomings are always precious; specially when you’ve been awaiting the return of the one person who’s sure to give you drool-worthy, well may be not drool-worthy but close enough, content for your blog, which has been stagnant for sometime now.

So here it is. Another incident, which has left yours-truly, scarred.

The husband had planned a fancy vacation in a far-flung fancy place (as if living in the woods wasn’t enough, already). To reach this place, one must drive for inhuman hours (3 hours to be precise, inhuman because I can’t drive to save my life). 

So, what do rational, tech-savvy people do? 

They switch the GPS on, and sing and dance their way through. Remember, it’s about the journey and not the destination? Such bull, my god! I mean who comes up with these one-liners? They are brutal and hurtful.

I had a terrible time with the GPS, the husband more so. Yes, he was driving and I, the intuitive being, giving directions. Now, before you get all judgmental on me, I am good with directions. I may not ask you to take a left from the round-about but I will tell you to take a left from the two-storeyed house with about more than fifty flower pots. And if you listen and look carefully, you’ll reach your destination safe and sound.

So, here I was, in a car which was inseparable to me, with a husband, who, had it not been for my great wit, would have dropped me by a river or something (like Joey did to Chandler because he didn’t believe in him).

It was a beautiful morning when we started from home. With the aux well connected, we were ready to conquer the roads, or so we thought. The husband sang along (a rare sight), delivered these monologues about life and instructions about how I must learn to manage my finances. “How I’d missed these sermons!”, I thought to myself. 

“Left ! Left! Left!” I shrieked and the husband took a steep left. First mistake should be excused and it was. I apologized and we went about being singy-songy. I looked at the GPS without blinking. I didn’t want to die. 

“Left or right?” he asked.

“Right.”, when I should have said “left”. I froze. I wanted to confess but this magical navigation thing rerouted itself. Thank God, we were only going to spend one extra hour on the road. He didn’t have to know that. 

We were rerouted thrice. I kept silent thrice. 

“Tune to bola tha do ghante langenge?”, someone was getting suspicious.

“Traffic hai na!” I replied like a forever-stuck-in traffic commuter.

We went about cursing and hurling nasty abuses and getting stuck in a fish market before we approached a flyover. 

“Flyover lena hai Kya?”, the husband sounded a little miffed.

Here’s the catch. You may hear the woman directing you to your destination, but you may understand nothing. So, I zoomed in 400 percent, understood nothing and we went under the flyover.

No points for guessing we were headed to hell and this god forsaken map refused to reroute. 

I was burdened with my lies and decided to confess.

“Bridge pe lena tha”. I meekly said.

The husband snatched the phone and my eardrums exploded when he said, “This is right and this is left! How difficult is it?”

Now, I don’t like being screamed at. So, I turned the speaker volume up to a deafening level and let Mr. Randhawa tell us how alcohol was defaming a bunch of Lamborghini-driving men. 

Yes, passive aggression; yes it works.

Apologies and PDAs followed by blaming the inaccuracy of maps made me restore my faith.

I decided not to navigate. Our ETA was fifteen minutes from when we approached another flyover. I didn’t  look or care. The husband zoomed in on the map and took a judgement call.

We were rerouted yet again.

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