Calcutta Vintage Car Rally

When it comes to machines, I believe in the afterlife. Specifically, I believe in the resurrection of old cars, trucks and motorbikes that have had life breathed back into them by their loving owner's passion and hard work. And, when these re-born vehicles and their owners congregate, I go to worship; even if it means getting out of bed at 7 am on a Sunday morning. January 20, 2007 A.D. was one such morning, and found me headed towards The Statesman newspaper's annual vintage car rally in Calcutta. Below, fellow worshippers bow their heads in honour of vintage motorbikes.




This was a true rally, which meant in order to participate you had to run your vehicle through the full driving course that meandered through Calcutta's many diverse neighbourhoods. I think it was a combination of whiteness and precociousness that landed me a seat in this 60's Dodge convertible, which just happened to be the closest thing to a muscle car in the whole rally. The car belonged to Mr. Mukerjee, who was driving his 1927 Austin Seven with his wife, while his driver drove the Dodge. The navigator had a computer in his lap and had figured out what our speed should be for each section of the course. With such advanced technology, how could we not win?


Being a Sunday, the roads were relatively quiet.


Mr. Singh is a high priest in the Art of Resurrection. This old Ariel was nothing but a pile of rust before he got to it. The various handlebar levers were all made by hand, cast in bronze, machined, polished, then chrome-plated. Prohibitively expensive at home, but possible in Calcutta.


A flat tire was the first thing standing between our car and Victory. Notice the group of people that instantly surrounded us in this residential neighbourhood. In Calcutta, it seemed that there were always at least 50 people just standing around, ready to give their attention to anything that might pop up.


The second thing to thwart our inevitable victory and champagne celebrations, was the lifting of the car with the jack positioned under the leaf springs (which meant the wheel couldn't drop down low enough to change the tire). I tried explaining this to the driver-cum-mechanic, but no one was listening to me. The same whiteness that opened the door for a ride in the backseat, now rendered me invisible. What could paleface possibly know about fixing a tyre? White people only know how to give orders. And, hey, given the history of India, that is a fair enough judgement. However, in this case it wasn't good judgement, because so far the locals had managed to pry and pull the flat tire out of the wheel well, and now couldn't get the spare on.


After all kinds of bad advice from everyone standing around, except me; they finally listened to this white boy (who happens to own a 60's American muscle car!) and put a second jack in the correct position. By the time this happened, all hopes of a victory lap had vanished. Instead, the crowd of onlookers watched as the spare tyre was bolted on, then hoisted me on their shoulders and sang a touching rendition of Jerusalem that would have made the Choir Master at Westminister Abbey proud. Of course, this was not the case. In fact, I was never even thanked, and sensed that they were annoyed that paleface was right.




As expected, the vintage vehicles were almost all from England, like these three lovely BSAs.


Hand-painted marquees are one of the benefits of not being able to find the original decals.


Sayan, a college student from Dehli snapped this picture of me about a month before we actually met through Sidhartha, who was also part of the college's camera club. As a paleface in India, it is not uncommon to have your picture taken by strangers, usually on a cellphone.