Just a Thought: UAE driving licence, at last, and Onam ready!

There are certain questions an Indian expat in the UAE learns to handle with grace.

“How long have you been here?”

“Twenty years.”

“Wonderful! Which car do you drive?”

“I don’t.”

That was usually followed by a silence normally reserved for medical diagnoses.

For two decades, I lived in a country built around magnificent roads without possessing the small plastic card that allowed me to drive on them. Friends found this hilarious. Relatives considered it a character defect. Colleagues treated it as an unresolved mystery.

“You still don’t have a licence?”

No. But thank you for checking. Again.

I had tried when I first arrived in the UAE, back when my hair was darker, my waistline more cooperative and optimism came naturally. Somewhere between driving lessons, tests and life, the dream quietly disappeared.

Then came marriage, responsibilities, middle age and grey hair. Twenty years later, something stirred. Perhaps courage. Perhaps madness. Perhaps, I simply ran out of excuses.

Also, the missus played her part, exorcising the procrastination bug out of me by nagging night and day.

"So and so has been driving for the last 19 years, did you both not arrive in Dubai on the same day?"

"See that limousine, and the couple inside? That could have been us."

Heard so and so's son got his licence. Was he not born after you came to Dubai?"

The ultimate insult was served up with some panache. The missus came in with a quiet look of triumph and a glint in the eye, flashing a piece of plastic in front of me.

"I got my driving licence today, I can now drive you to office and back," she said.

That was it.

So I enrolled again.

The staff at the driving institute looked at my records, then at me, then back at the records.

“You started learning twenty years ago?” Yes.

There are heritage buildings in Dubai younger than my driving ambitions.

My classmates did not improve matters. They appeared to be approximately 14. I found myself sitting in waiting areas with young men and women two generations removed from me, people who probably learned to swipe a smartphone before I learned to send an SMS. They arrived for lessons carrying iced coffees and AirPods. I arrived carrying reading glasses, water and the accumulated anxiety of two decades.

They discussed TikTok. I discussed lower-back support. But slowly, painfully, I learned.

Mirrors. Indicators. Lane changes. Roundabouts. Parking. The mysterious art of convincing an examiner that I was a responsible adult despite mounting evidence to the contrary.

And then, one glorious day, I passed. I had a UAE driving licence. After twenty years.

My family celebrated. Friends congratulated me. Some relatives were presumably disappointed because one of their favourite conversation topics had vanished overnight.

Then came the next problem. The car.

Buying a car in the UAE is difficult because this is a country that does not believe in doing automobiles quietly. You can leave home looking for a sensible family vehicle and, within ten minutes, encounter something Italian producing enough horsepower to alter weather patterns.

Every second traffic light seems to contain a supercar, hypercar or something that looks capable of reaching Abu Dhabi before you have finished saying “Salik”.

The missus began sensibly. Budget. Reliability. Practicality. She picked up a vehicle that ensconced all these values and then some.

I continued my search, as financial discipline quietly died. Eventually, I found my ride. The car dreams are made of.

And, after seeing the final price, nightmares too, especially for the missus. I personally feel there are moments when a man should walk away, consult his bank account and think about retirement. I apparently experienced none of them.

I splurged.

The missus looked away. It was a tough call, for her.

But, after twenty years without a licence, perhaps I was compensating. Some men respond to middle age by buying expensive watches. Others start running marathons. I bought a car that made my wallet file a missing-person report.

And so, just in time for Onam, the wife and I finally have our own ride. This year, when we head out for the celebrations, I will be behind the wheel — licence in pocket, grey hair in place and considerably less money in the bank. There will be pookalam, sadya, family gatherings and, inevitably, someone asking the question I waited twenty years to hear:

“So, which car did you buy?”

For once, I’m all geared up with a response.