There’s this good friend. Well, actually, she was a good and disarmingly modest friend until her husband was elevated to the status of a minor politico. Let’s call her Madam X. She’s nice enough, still a dependable friend when not surrounded by the accoutrements of her elevated position in life. These include the usual suspects: the overnight emergence of a chorus of courtiers extolling her virtues; the almost-Lutyens bungalow with velvety emerald green lawns stretching into the distance; a ‘staff’ (only those who have ‘staff’ use the word for the flunkies who open doors, answer phones, cook, clean and guard). There’s also, of course, tea at Rashtrapati Bhavan for various occasions, a chair in the VIP enclosure for Republic Day and a pile-up of dinner invitations from the diplomatic corps eager to get cozy with those in power.

I could go on. Madame X, an ambitious housewife, takes all this in her stride, her nose inching up a notch or two, like a caricature snob. But what gets her really uppity – her nose rears up even more skywards – is her spanking new white Ambassador. You know those ubiquitous broad-bottomed, duck-like sarkari cars that look like leftovers from the last war. You encounter Ambys on the roads of our capital, usually screeching past you with their red beacons flashing loudly as they go past. These flashers, sorry Ambys, have acquired such a cult status in our country that they have a nickname. In fact, the Ambassador has even found a resting place in the Smithsonian in Washington DC – another capital where the powerful display their power in, arguably, less obvious and crass ways. Artist Subodh Gupta has even immortalised them in paint.

Well, my dear friend metamor-phoses into quite a different person once she steps into this contemporary version of the chariot of the gods: she just looks taller and more, well, in command. No doubt her spouse does too. I have spotted him all puffed up like a pregnant pigeon once he’s settled into its rather sumptuously done-up interior – all white gleaming leather upholstery.

Sahib, however, has keen compe-tition in arrogant posturing from his driver. Yes, the charioteers of these gods-on-the-capital’s-streets behave as if they own the roads. You see, ministers and the top brass come and go, depending on the whims of fate and of those higher up on the power ladder. But drivers remain with their cars, lovingly polishing their exteriors, hanging those hideous-looking bottles of cheap perfume and adding other personal touches.

They steer their siren-endowed Ambys where other drivers won’t dare go. You can spot them at places like airports or railway stations where other cars can’t park. Ambassadors also cross yellow lines as if they just didn’t exist.

White Amby rider
No wonder others covet Ambys – even those with an assortment of imported cars in their garages. Take this acquaintance, an eminence grise of Delhi with a fleet of cars: he is on the A-list for invitations to the best parties in town and is a toast of the diplomatic circle and lives in a home to die for. Yet, his eyes mist over when he talks about the Ambassador. “God has given me everything but you know I will never be in a position to achieve this…status of the government.”

A white Ambassador with a siren spells status – power and prestige in equal measure. Money can’t buy you one, it has to be given. I recently came across a quote by Karan Singh Tanwar of the BSP: “A white Ambassador with a red beacon is worth more than those luxury sedans.”

My candid friend hits the nail on the head. “Riding in one you can go to a posh place where there are any number of Bentleys, BMWs and Mercs of all numbers and sizes. Yet, when you step out of an Amby you are as good as anybody else. If you don’t have money-show, you have power-show.”

At high-powered weddings or gatherings the Amby driver coolly pushes beyond where other cars are asked to stop. Sahib and memsahib get deposited at the entrance, while other mortals step out of their branded cars and trudge the gravel in their stilettos and Guccis. People part like the Red Sea when these cars approach markets. Shopkeepers switch on to high alert.

Seeing red
While many – like our eminence grise Delhiwala man for all parties – go green with envy when they come across an official Amby, an increasing number see red. All the more so when these cars brazenly overtake you from the left or right, sirens blaring – even when just the babalog are in it or Madame is going to buy sabzi and is in a hurry.

Iconic, this old workhorse has, in many ways, endearingly endured. It is supposed to be the equivalent of swadeshi khadi, and was souped up some years ago with power steering and leather upholstery for politicians. But the exterior remained the same: unassuming. Just like the khadi-clad politicians who haven’t bothered to hide their branded watches and pens.

Politicians are supposed to represent the people, not shoo them out of the way while they ride, insulated in these moving symbols of power. You have only to go past the PM’s house on Race Course Road and see hundreds of them parked like a flock of sitting white ducks to realise their collective power. After Mumbai’s 26/11 some of the less thick-skinned politicians would probably feel less like masters of the universe as they went about their daily lives in their white Ambys.

If I were Madhur Bhandarkar, I would title my next film Ambassador and immediately start penning a script round this ubiquitous car. Just imagine eavesdropping on the conversations of the Amby drivers.

Madhu Jain is an author and a journalist. She writes for several publications and is currently working on her second book. She also curates art shows.

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