Lost Leina Pt 1.

A Toyota Celica, a 1974 model. What a beauty, a marvel on four wheels. Looking at it I could hear the eargsimic strong vroom of the 1500 cc engine. The thrill, the adrenaline rush, veins popping, as I stepped on the gas. The screech of the wheels, blowing dust and gravel, as I came to a sudden stop, and jerked my back in to position. It was a convertible, deeply maroon in colour, gleaming silver rims, headlights and tail lights, which I would like to think were neon, the atomic number 10. They weren’t. I could almost see the headlights and the rear wheels leaving a trail of envy, as I cruised wind blowing on my leather jacket. I could see my form, an image obtained from the popular need for speed (NFS). Evading police roadblocks and outrunning their choppers. Man, it was better than flying. Stepping to my imaginary hood, to my imaginary clique. Full of dreamy honour and praise.

Leina

The year was 1999. The gift was wrapped in a black ageing canvas. Rather hurriedly, enabling you to tell more than 60% of the subject by ignoring the wrapper. I had craved for it since the time I knew that cars could move, and way much faster than my clumsy floor crawling. Year after year, season after season. I admired it and readily washed it thoroughly whenever I was requested to. Other times I could stare at it in awe for long momentous moments. Time-lapses of pure undiluted revere. An idle, old but gleaming Toyota Celica. Never did I see it move from its spot in the garage. A garage which was a museum housing the single relic. A garage which I could not play in. Because what it contained was nearly sacred. A garage which you stepped in, whenever you were invited to, because it was not a lavatory. To be used whenever the call of nature came. No, you stepped there when you were instructed to give the relic a good praise-worthy wash. Now I was comfortably seated on a folding chair, which resided beneath the relic. Grand pa was seated, rather rocking opposite me, on his old fine pretence of a rocking chair. He had a calabash on his arms, half-way full of the traditional sour porridge. His favourite evening drink. Specially prepared for him, and him only.

He was finally actualizing my dream, giving me the keys to the Celica. Capable of clocking 180 km/h, if only the roads were that good. I didn’t know if the car functioned, I had admired it without seeing it move. It had been in the garage for as long as I could remember. I had never seen grandpa drive it.

I jumped in to the driver’s seat and tried to start it. Nope. It didn’t. Once again, nope. A third, a fourth, a fifth time. Nothing happened. It had taken ages to actualize my dream, now it was sweepingly crashing. Hurriedly going to the abyss which dead dreams reside. After the light of the future fades on them.

The car would not start for days, until Uncle Jeff came and coaxed it. My dream saw the light again, and systematically flew out of the abyss. Systematically because it was a slow process, rather painful for me. I was dying to ride the Celica, my up until few years ago dream car. My rides were not memorable; I was a shitty driver, a pro trained by playstation 1. Whenever I drove it images of soul plane’s captain Snoop Dogg came to my mind. Profusely sweating in the mid-air, and admitting his pilot training was never real, but rather simulated. How could I admit this to my baby, Leina? The beautiful name I bestowed her. How could I tell I was so wrong about her, that she was never magical? She just gleamed a lot, and looked beautiful for nothing?

This was not going to happen, I was going to find a fix. Like a coke addict who wakes up in the middle of the night, bones and what’s left of him rattling. Going for the killer powder. I had to get a fix.  Uncle Jeff said he would not touch the car again, because he too had for long desired it. Only for his dad to say no. Now that I had it, his little horns of jealousy had grown in to big buffalo-like horns. He was not going to upgrade the car for me, period. I had to find my own ways and means.

This was few years down the line, grandpa had long since passed, and the family was in and out of court everyday due to his, lack of it or mis-interpretation of it. I was not very much interested in the goings. Until they started throwing curt remarks about Leina. While I was still planning how to revamp her, they started planning how to pounce on her, defile her and ‘junkfy’ her.

Then the war began. Events play songs in my head. This one played closer to the edge, by 30 seconds to mars. I disagreed with the singing part of my brain. Leina was not closer to the edge. I drew out my sword, and my knives. It was an all out war.

My indifference in the past battles had me in the sorriest of states. I had no one on my side except my lawyer. Some ambulance chasing chap I picked from river-road. Easy Joe, as I called him. He was scrawny and like most lawyers he drowned gallons of liquor. I had no problem with that, maybe he worked better that way. His eyes were always blood-shot, and a cheap cigarette dangled from his fingers as it made contact with his mouth more times than his hands held law books and more than he had food. This explained his protruding bones and countable ribs. He had a goatee which he was very fond off, always pulling it, unless he was busy smoking or drinking. I used to fear that he was going to drop dead in a court room, arguing my case. Luckily he didn’t. He dropped dead in a bar. When his heart, liver, kidneys and other paraphernalia located in the abdomen and chest failed at once. At least that’s what everybody said. Easy Joe, Who graduated from KSL, class of ’83.

To be continue........