A Windshield and a Road

Imagine an early Sunday morning.

The city hasn't quite woken up. Its streets still belong to the occasional newspaper delivery van, a milkman's scooter, and a handful of people who seem to have discovered the peculiar luxury of being awake before the rest of the world. The traffic lights change obediently for almost nobody. Shop shutters remain down. The familiar bustle of the city is still several cups of coffee away.

And there we are.

The Brezza hums along effortlessly, its engine settling into that gentle, reassuring rhythm. There's a lovely stretch of road ahead, the morning light spilling across the bonnet, and the windshield framing a world that seems, for once, to have nowhere urgent to be.

No particular destination. No appointment to keep. No elaborate itinerary. Just a road that looks inviting enough to follow.

We're chatting about absolutely everything.

Cars, naturally. How some engines seem to have personalities of their own. Why one car makes you feel at home within five minutes while another, despite all its specifications and clever engineering, never quite wins you over. Whether a particular bend is better approached in fourth gear or fifth. And why the driver of that enormous truck ahead seems convinced that the entire road is a personal inheritance.

Then music. Perhaps an Eagles song comes on. We let it play. There's something about music heard through a car stereo, with the landscape moving in time to it, that makes even a familiar song feel newly discovered. A few lines are hummed, a few memories surface, and before long we're discussing the strange business of growing older while remaining, in certain respects, exactly the same person we were decades ago.

The conversation wanders, as good conversations should. From music to memories, from memories to people, from people to the peculiar turns life takes. We might discuss some grand philosophical question, only to abandon it halfway through because a particularly ridiculous-looking three-wheeler has just overtaken us. Some observations deserve immediate attention. Philosophy can wait.

There are stretches when neither of us says anything. Not because the conversation has run out, but because the road itself has become conversation enough. A row of trees, a distant hill, the occasional glimpse of the sea, a village slowly emerging from its morning sleep. The world has a way of offering little things when we're not particularly busy looking for anything.

Perhaps we pull over for breakfast somewhere. Nothing fancy. A small place with good coffee, hot food and a view of the road. We sit a little longer than necessary, watching other people go about their Sunday mornings. Then, eventually, we return to the car.

And off we go again.

I wonder if that's what I've been looking forward to all this while. Not merely the ownership of a car, or the satisfaction of learning a new skill, or even the freedom of being able to travel independently. Those are all wonderful in their own right. But perhaps there's something more elemental about it.

The simple pleasure of movement. Of choosing a direction. Of watching the world unfold beyond a windshield, knowing that for the next little while, the hours are your own.

It's an odd thing, really. At fifty-two, after all the years of work, responsibilities, deadlines, disappointments, small victories and unfinished plans, here I am, discovering the anticipation of a Sunday morning drive with the enthusiasm of someone who has just been let out into the world.

And perhaps that's the nicest part of it.

The road doesn't ask how old you are. It doesn't ask what you've achieved, what you've missed, or how long it took you to get here. It simply stretches ahead.

The engine hums. The morning opens up. A song begins playing.

And somewhere beyond the next bend, there's another stretch of road waiting.

No destination.

Just a windshield and a road.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Moment I Let Go of the Brake

 Eight weeks. That's how long I'll have to wait for my new Maruti Suzuki Brezza ZXi+ automatic. Top-end variant, 1.5-litre, four-cylinder petrol engine, six-speed torque-converter automatic transmission. The booking is done, the waiting period has begun, and for once, I didn't spend days agonising over the decision after making it.

I booked it almost immediately after a 45-minute test drive.

That probably deserves an explanation, particularly from someone who had spent quite some time comparing cars, reading specifications, watching reviews and wondering which one would be the right fit. I'd liked the Fronx. I'd liked the Grand Vitara. Even the humble Ignis had left an impression on me. Each had something I appreciated, and each had contributed to my understanding of what I wanted from a car. Yet, when I finally drove the Brezza properly, it felt as though several pieces of a puzzle had come together.

The Grand Vitara had given me a taste of the upright SUV stance and the elevated view of the road that I found reassuring. The Fronx had appealed to me with its modern interiors, which felt familiar and inviting. And the Ignis, with its four-cylinder engine, had introduced me to a smoothness of operation that I liked. Somehow, the Brezza brought these three experiences together in a package that felt right for me.

But none of that explains why I booked it so quickly. For that, I have to go back to the first minute of the drive.

I got into the driver's seat, settled myself, and released the brake. The car simply crawled forward, smoothly and predictably. That was it. Almost immediately, I felt relaxed.

There was no spectacular acceleration, no engine note to get excited about, no sudden revelation about horsepower or torque. , when I let my foot off the brake.

It was a small thing, perhaps, but it mattered. There was something reassuring about the way the car responded to such a simple input. I didn't feel as though I had to negotiate with the machine to get it moving. I could let it creep, apply a little acceleration when needed, and modulate my speed through the brake. It felt natural.

The remaining 44 minutes were spent getting to know the car. And perhaps the car was getting to know me, too. Of course, it was a test-drive car, so it wasn't exactly a relationship built on equal commitment!

Once I was comfortable with the initial movement, I began exploring how it behaved in different situations. Gentle acceleration was smooth. Crawling through traffic was manageable. The pickup on the highway felt linear and predictable, without the car seeming to leap forward unexpectedly. The steering and controls felt easy enough to work with, and I gradually found myself paying less attention to the mechanics of making the car move and more attention to how it responded.

That, I think, is an important distinction. A car can have an impressive specification sheet and still leave you feeling that you're constantly managing it. Another can make the same basic tasks feel almost effortless. For me, the Brezza seemed to belong to the second category.

I also wanted to understand what lay beneath the familiar automatic-driving experience. So, for a stretch, I experimented with the paddle shifters. I moved into manual mode, shifted up through the gears until I reached sixth, and then worked my way back down, observing how the transmission responded. I wasn't trying to extract maximum performance from the car. I was simply curious about its behaviour and wanted to understand the relationship between my inputs and its responses.

The six-speed torque-converter automatic seemed happy to play along. It gave me the opportunity to experiment without the additional demands of a clutch pedal and manual gear changes. For someone still learning the finer points of driving, that freedom to concentrate on the road and the car's behaviour is a welcome thing.

The inclines didn't give me much trouble either. I could feel that the engine and transmission were working together to get the car moving uphill without requiring me to manage a clutch or worry about stalling. It was another part of the drive that reinforced my initial impression: the Brezza felt approachable without feeling underpowered or reluctant.

For most of the drive, it was also remarkably smooth and quiet. The engine didn't intrude much into the cabin, and the overall experience felt relaxed. I wasn't constantly conscious of mechanical effort or noise. The car simply went about its business, leaving me free to concentrate on driving.

There was, however, one aspect of its highway behaviour that I wasn't entirely comfortable with.

At higher speeds, the car developed a slight floating, wallowy sensation. It felt less planted on the road than I would have liked, and I instinctively eased off the accelerator for a moment. It was a noticeable departure from the otherwise reassuring experience. I wouldn't want to gloss over it simply because I had enjoyed the drive so much.

That said, it was one observation during a test drive, not a verdict on the car as a whole. I came away happy with the experience, while remaining conscious of something I would want to keep in mind.

And that, perhaps, is the difference between being impressed by a car and actually liking the experience of driving it. I wasn't looking for a vehicle that would win every comparison on paper. I wanted one whose behaviour made sense to me, one I could become familiar with and grow more confident in as I accumulated experience.

The Brezza seemed to offer that.

So I booked it.

Now comes the eight-week wait. It does seem like a long time, but I suppose anticipation is part of the experience. Somewhere in a factory, a Brezza will eventually begin its journey towards becoming my Arctic White Brezza. There will be a day when I collect the keys, settle into the driver's seat, adjust the mirrors, and take it out onto the road—not as a test-drive car, but as my own.

I know there's plenty I still have to master. There will be awkward parking manoeuvres, unfamiliar roads, moments of hesitation and, eventually, the quiet satisfaction of getting better at something that once seemed daunting. I'm looking forward to all of it.

For now, though, I'm happy to have made my choice. I found a car that felt right, and I can already imagine the journeys waiting for us.

Here's to the open road, the miles ahead, and the pleasure of discovering just how far a little confidence can take me. I can hardly wait.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)