It was around this time of year in 1973 when we were in Mumbai. The purpose of our trip was to take delivery of a brand-new Fiat car—the newly launched model called “Premier Padmini.”
Buying a car then was not as easy as it is today, when one can simply walk into a showroom and choose from a range of models with various financing options. Back then, we had to book a car through a dealer, and the waiting period was anywhere between 1 to 2 years. If you wanted early delivery, you had to pay a ‘premium’ of about 10 to 12 thousand rupees over the car’s listed price. The Army had a Defence Quota option, but even under that, the waiting time ranged from 6 to 8 years. The only advantage was that the car’s price was slightly lower than the market rate because of certain sales tax exemptions.
I had booked a car in 1962 when I was posted to Jammu and Kashmir. In those days, one never received a letter of acknowledgment for the booking. When your turn came, an allocation letter would be sent to your current address.
When my next posting came to Delhi, I decided to inquire with the concerned department in the Ministry of Defence regarding my car booking. I learned that, yes, my turn had come. There was quite a difference in price between Mumbai and Delhi. While it cost ₹24,000 in Delhi, in Mumbai it was available for ₹21,500. I opted to take delivery in Mumbai, as the price was much cheaper there. A difference of ₹3,500 was significant in those days. Besides, the Army also received a 50% concession on airfares, so a round trip to Mumbai for the two of us, my wife and me, cost ₹800. Since we had planned to drive back in the new car, we needed to pay only a one-way fare.
Hence, entrusting our children to their grandparents, we set off on what turned out to be a sort of adventure vacation and landed in Mumbai.
The dealer’s name for Fiat cars in Mumbai was the Bombay Cycle Agency. Perhaps they had originally sold bicycles and later shifted to cars, but they still retained their old name. I told them that since I planned to drive straight to Delhi, they should ensure that all vital parts were in perfect working order so I could have a trouble-free journey. They assured me this would be done, and the next morning, around 10:00 a.m., we took delivery of the car and set off directly towards the highway.
I had sought the help of a friend, who made his driver available to guide us out of the Mumbai metropolis. We had barely gone a few kilometres when the car began giving jerks—a sure sign that something was wrong with the ignition system. I was not overly concerned, thanks to my army training, during which I had completed a course in automobile maintenance and could handle minor repairs or adjustments myself. However, I resisted the urge to check the problem on my own. Instead, I drove back to the dealer and reported the issue. They were apologetic and requested that I leave the car with them and take delivery the next day at the same time. Meanwhile, they would have the vehicle thoroughly checked.
The next day, the car was ready, and we set off once again toward Delhi.
Earlier, it was in 1967–68 that I came close to buying a car when I was posted at Ambala in an Air Formation Unit. We were under the administrative control of the Air Force Station Commander. Unlike the Army, in the Air Force an acting squadron leader was entitled to a car loan. In the Army, however, only a substantive major with 13 years of service qualified for one. I therefore applied for a car loan, which was promptly sanctioned, and we sent off the contingent bill to our paymaster, the CDA (Officers), Pune. Meanwhile, I began looking around for a suitable second-hand car.
I found one, a Landmaster, the first model produced by the company that later made the Ambassador. I took a liking to it because it reminded me of my college days in 1953, when a friend owned the same model in shiny black. He often gave me rides in it, and I used to wonder then, would I ever be able to own a car like this? At that time, the distant future was rather hazy. I thus fell for the Landmaster, and the deal was finalized.
The owner was also a government official, and upon learning that my car loan had already been sanctioned and that I was waiting to receive the money from the CDA, he was willing to part with the car. He said I could pay whatever amount I had in hand and settle the balance once the loan was disbursed. Thankfully, I did not take the offer and saved myself from a major embarrassment. I got a letter from the CDA, saying that since I had not permanently seconded to the air force, rules applicable to the Army apply in my case. That put the matter of buying a car on the back burner for quite a few years.
Coming back to our drive along the Mumbai–Delhi highway, it was near a place called Guna in Madhya Pradesh that darkness began to fall. I decided to stop for the night, as we were right in front of a government Dak bungalow. My wife, however, suggested, “Why don’t we drive for a few more hours so we get closer to Delhi?” So we pressed on.
My wife, who was singing songs to pass time, happened to turn back and look out from the rear window and stopped mid-note! It was the eve of Diwali, a pitch-dark night, and there was virtually no traffic. Barring the headlights, which lit the road, the area around us was as dark as the night itself. We were now passing through the Chambal Valley region, which at the time was notorious for dacoits. Prominently in the news were Phoolan Devi, famously known as the Bandit Queen, and Paan Singh, both infamous for their daring exploits.
Digressing a little, let me tell you more about these two famous dacoits and recount a couple of remarkable incidents, as narrated to me by those who had these firsthand encounters:
Phoolan Devi came from a low-caste family and was married off at the age of 11, after which she suffered repeated abuse at the hands of upper-caste men. It was then that she took up arms and became known as the Bandit Queen. In 1983, she attacked her village, Behmai, exacting revenge against the Thakurs by killing around 20 of them. Elusive and on the run, she evaded arrest until she eventually came over ground and surrendered. She spent 11 long years in jail without trial or the possibility of bail until the state government withdrew the cases and she was set free. By then, she had earned considerable sympathy and goodwill among the people in and around her village. She went on to be elected to the Lok Sabha on a Samajwadi Party ticket, serving two tenures. In Parliament, she was an active participant, not merely a silent spectator. In 1994, she was killed by an assailant due to an old animosity, and the murderer was later sentenced to life imprisonment.
Paan Singh Tomar is another interesting figure. A faujii who served in the Indian Army for around 15 years, he was better known for his athletic achievements. He was the national champion in the steeplechase for 7 years and even competed in the 1958 Asian Games in Tokyo. However, disputes over his family land left him unable to obtain justice, either from society or the authorities. Frustrated and disillusioned, he took up arms and became notorious for his exploits as a dacoit. A film based on his life was released in 2012, winning awards for Best Film and Best Actor, with Irrfan Khan playing the leading role.
Here’ the first one:
An officer, proceeding on posting from Delhi to Mhow, decided to shift his luggage by truck rather than book it through the railways. In those days, baggage often got lost in transit, and the compensation offered was a mere pittance. He therefore chose to drive along, following the truck in his car by himself, while his family traveled directly from Delhi to Mhow by train.
When he was passing through the Chambal Valley area, it was late—around 1:30 a.m.—and he was stopped by a gang of dacoits. He pleaded with them, explaining that he was an army officer on posting, and that all his assets were in the truck. If they looted it, he would be left with nothing.
One of the dacoits, seemingly more sensible, said, “Aap hamare saath chaliye, and if our Sardar says OK, then you are free to go.” He then led the officer into the interior of the jungle, about 50 yards from the road, to their command post. There, in full filmi style, the Sardar was reclining on a cot, a gun in hand, with multiple 12-bore cartridges fitted in loops on a leather holster strapped across his chest smoking a hooka.
The officer repeated his explanation to the Sardar, while one of the men held a lantern close to his face. The moment the Sardar saw him, he instantly jumped off the cot and exclaimed, “Arey Sir, aap? Jai hind Sir.” The Sardar recognized him as his former commanding officer.
“Arey Dilbagh Singh! Tum yaha kaise!” replied the officer, taken aback. “Aur ye kya haal bana rakha hai apna?”
The Sardar, now slightly embarrassed, said, “Kya batao sahib.”
Dilbagh Singh had retired from service a few years earlier. Being purely an infantry soldier, he had no technical qualifications nor any land holdings. Unable to secure a job, he had, out of compulsion, taken up arms once again and become a dacoit.
Both he and the officer chatted for a while, during which Dilbagh Singh ordered a hot cup of tea, a welcome change after spending 15 or so minutes in the company of the dacoits. When it was time to part, Dilbagh Singh came up to the road to see off his ex-commanding officer and deputed one of his men to escort him safely out of the area.
And here’s another one:
Pune is a major city with a large number of army institutions, which include the Armed Forces Medical College, the Military Engineering College, and the Bombay Engineering Group. In addition, the headquarters of the Southern Command is also located there. It was quite common for officers from nearby Ahmednagar, a relatively small town, to drive down to Pune on weekends—watch a movie, spend time with friends, and then head back late in the evening.
On one such occasion, a group of three officers, each with their wives, were returning from Pune on their scooters—very few owned cars back then. Around midnight, they were waylaid by a group of ruthless robbers, who instructed the officers, “Just tell your ladies to take out their jewellery, we don’t want to touch them, and you men hand over your wallets and watches.”
One of the officers protested, “Look, you cannot do this to us. We are all army officers.” The apparent leader of the robbers stepped forward and said, “Is that so? Show us your ID cards then!” All three officers promptly produced their ID cards. The robbers saluted them, turned to their men, and ordered the barrier removed, allowing the officers and their wives to continue their journey towards Ahmednagar.
Back to our story….
After travelling for another three hours, we cleared the Chambal Valley and halted for the night at a place—its name escapes me—at their dak bungalow. We set off early the next morning toward Delhi. We reached Agra around midday and took a short break at a restaurant next to a petrol pump, topped up the fuel, and, just out of curiosity, had the tyre pressure checked. To our shock, all four wheels were inflated to 60–65 pounds, as against the prescribed 20–22 pounds. The car dealer, after taking an additional day, had delivered the car with the tyre pressure set at nearly three times the prescribed limit. It was no wonder that while driving, I sometimes felt as though we had a flat tyre, as the car appeared unstable.
The speed at which I was driving did not exceed 60 km per hour, as the new car’s carburettor had a governor fitted—standard practice for new cars in those days—which prevented the speed from going beyond 60 km. A new car had to run for around a thousand kilometres before its first servicing. This was called a “running in period”. After which, the governor was removed, and the car could be driven at higher speeds as desired.
A tight budgeting of expenses was also in store for us, as the salaries we received at the time were quite low. After paying the monthly loan installment, which was around Rs. 175, along with other deductions, our savings in the bank amounted to only about Rs. 700. To be fair, the cost of living was low too. To give some perspective, 1 kg of mutton cost Rs. 10, and a 4.5 kg can of Dalda was Rs. 14 in the canteen. Refined cooking oil was unheard of, not yet in existence.
Owning a car now naturally meant an increase in monthly expenses, adding to the financial strain. One evening, while listening to the news, we heard that from midnight onwards, petrol, which cost Rs. 1.25 per litre, would rise to Rs. 2.73, more than double the existing price. Shocked, I immediately rushed to the nearest petrol pump and topped up the tank, saving Rs. 45 in the process. The effect of the fuel hike was evident on the road the next day, with noticeably fewer vehicles on the road. Nowadays, the relentless upward trajectory of fuel prices barely makes a dent in traffic at all.
That was also the time when the Army Headquarters acquired luxury buses, ferrying us from our homes to South Block and back. In those days, we lived in Dhaula Kuan, an army cantonment area, and the drive to the office took around 30 minutes. Taking the officers’ bus was a welcome change, as it allowed us to arrive with a fresh mind, free from the stress of navigating rush-hour traffic.
After using our trusted Fiat for five years, we sold it for Rs. 25,000, a good price for a second-hand car, as there was still a premium on buying new cars. This situation changed drastically for the better once Maruti, in conjunction with Suzuki of Japan, began producing cars, and later, the import of other brands was allowed. These days, when you sell a car after five years or so, you often do not even get fifty percent of the price at which it was purchased. So much has changed.
A Grateful Thanks
Sara, my grandniece, who does quite a few things in a grand way. She types my stories as I narrate from mind, as age has taken its toll on my writing and reading abilities. She logs onto the internet to find answers to any queries that I may have on factual matters. Just turned 11, she is a student of class six in a prestigious South Delhi school. May God bless her with success in life.