Santhosh's ramblings

I bought a new car not long ago. By “not long ago,” I mean sixteen months, which in car years should still count as youthful. Unfortunately, my car has already acquired the expression of a middle-aged man who has seen too much traffic, too many potholes, and too much enthusiasm from its owner. The engine is fine, the wheels are still attached, and the horn retains its theological confidence. But the body has needed repeated visits to what I call “car hospitals” for denting and painting. If there were a loyalty card for such shops, I would probably qualify for a free bumper massage. My wife, who represents the voice of wisdom, economy, and inconvenient truth, once asked, “Why do you keep spending money on denting and painting? The car still drives.” This was difficult to answer because she was entirely right. The car could move, turn, stop, and even look respectable from a generous distance. But I could not bear the sight of its small scars. A scratch on the car somehow felt like a scra...