Free You Were My Crush: Till You Said You Love Me! by Durjoy Datta, Orvana Ghai

reversed the car out of its parking space, but the car stuttered, jerked a little and came to a rude stop. I shut the engine down and tried again.
    Kharrr … Khaarhh … Khaarhhh.
    The car stuttered for a while and came to a stop. I gave it a few more tries, pushing the pedal all the way down, but the car died on me again.
    And then, there was smoke rising from inside the hood of the car.
Darn
. Frantically, I stepped out from the car and stood at a distance, just in case it decided to blow up; it happens all the time in the movies. I waited for the smoke to settle down. I stood there watching the smoke settle, and then tried to call a cab, but the network was terrible.
    ‘Is there a problem, Benoy?’ a voice called out. I wondered if it was Jack the Ripper, but it was my father.
    ‘It died,’ I said and pointed to the car.
    It was still spewing out fumes. Diya would jump and dance and laugh if she were to see the car bathed in white smoke; she had been trying to make me use public transport instead. She was appalled to see how much I spent on fuel alone.
    ‘The network doesn’t work here in the basement,’ he said. ‘You want me to drop you somewhere?’
    I considered it for a few brief seconds, and then thought,
What the heck
; at least I would get to sit inside the shiny Bentley. I felt like a cheap pervert as I looked at the car, wanting to take it out, get it drunk on diesel, drive her around town, to take its top off and stare at the bare V8 engine. I
lusted
after it.
    I nodded my head and he tossed the keys towards me and said, ‘You can drive.’
    My hands trembled, my lips quivered, I sweated and blood rushed to every part of my body; it was an orgasm.
    ‘Great car,’ I said even though describing it as just ‘
great
’was an insult. It’s like calling Lana Del Rey just another girl; it’s like calling the Beatles a boy band.
    ‘Your mother used to love this car a lot, too,’ he said, almost mumbled. ‘I used to be scared when she used to drive this.’
    ‘
What?
Drive?’
    ‘Yes. She never told you that she drove this car?’
    ‘No, she didn’t. All I knew was she didn’t want me to have this car.’
    I knew they met now and then, but I did not know that Mom drove his car. All I knew was that she hated him!
    ‘She loved this car. I actually bought one for you but she didn’t let me give it to you,’ he explained.
    ‘I know about that. I don’t know why she would keep me away from something this awesome?’ I said as I pushed on the gas, making the beast roar.
    ‘She didn’t want you to be anything like me. Or do anything the way I do it.’
    ‘How does owning the same car make me like you?’
    ‘That’s exactly what I told her. But she just didn’t listen,’ he said.
    I found it hard to put all this together. Like him and my mother talking about the kind of car I should get. I always thought that my hatred for him was a continuation of my mom’s hatred for him.
    ‘This is so much better than the Audi,’ I said.
    ‘You can keep it.’
    ‘It’s hard to say no to such a car,’ I said. I felt like such a sell-out, a disgrace. It felt like betraying Mom, but it was she who was talking to him, not me.
    ‘Then don’t. Just keep it. Anyway, it takes up way too much space in my garage,’ he said, like a salesperson, only that he was buying me; I felt worse.
    ‘Thank you.’ I sold. I could almost see Mom shaking her head, pointing a finger at me and saying, ‘You’re greedy.’
    We reached Barakhamba Road where he said he would get down.
    ‘Thank you for the lift,’ I said.
    ‘Thank you for the lift, Benoy. It’s your car now,’ he said and smiled.
    ‘Thank you for the car.’
    This was the longest conversation I had ever had with my dad.
    Until I was seventeen, I had barely heard him talk, and I assumed, like all steel traders, he would sound like a rustic, uneducated businessperson. I had no idea that over the years he had made up for his lack of education and how! What