Chairman's message :

Chances are cars have you under their spell. I understand that well, thanks to my father's fascination for fast cars and automobiles as art. From among his many talents, he chose to concentrate on cars and business, thus setting the stage for a future filled with four-wheelers.

My early favou rites were his custom designs. Cars that began life as m ere machinery were metamorphosed by metal workers with magic hands. Ripple free surfaces, smooth curves and straight lines proclaimed the artisans skills. Paintwork gleamed and chrome shone brightly. Smile, and your reflection smiled straight back at you.

Flawless, or so it seemed to your scribe whose favourite was a cream, red and silver streamliner, perfect for sailing on sunny days and starry, starry nights. It no longer resembled the Studebaker it once was, retaining only the chassis, suspension and drivetrain. Though the car was eventually endowed with a Cadillac V-8 and Jaguar close-ratio gearbox, I loved the classy cruiser for its retracting roof, rakish Fifties tailfins, silky ride and ability to acquire admirers wherever it went. Everyone we knew wanted a ride and missing out would leave me disconsolate for days thereafter.

Sometimes, when the light is just right, I can see it in the mind's eye. I smell the leather and petrol and see the city sweeping by. I hear the exhaust rumbling reassuringly soft and deep, feel the wind in my hair and eyes and face and understand why it made us all feel so good.

The arrival of a new design at home was always a surprise because I was considered too young to go to the garage then. Yet I remained faithful to the classic convertible throughout, even when we became owners (much against my mother's wishes, I must admit) of a '34 Rolls Royce with Mulliner, Park Ward coachwork. Until She arrived, that is, and suddenly I wasn't so sure anymore.

Inspired by the Aston Martin DB III, her finery was a fastback and flowing lines in fibreglass, firecracker red all over. Someone gave me a ride which made me forget forever who it was that bestowed the favour. My head spun with the acceleration, the siren song of the engine, the whiplash exhaust and the super stiff ride. I'd never seen anything like it in my life. What really bowled me over was her perfume, the unforgettable aroma of Castrol R that followed her everywhere. Having spent the night dreaming of her, I would wake up at dawn to go look at her, always wishing I was old enough to take her out. Few believed us when we told them that she had started life as a humble Herald. My mother christened her "Q'marri", and over the years her tribe increased.

I  didn't  know such cars were being raced on Sundays at Barrackpore and consequently couldn't conceive what purpose they served besides showing off. I also did not know about Dewan Rahul Lall, better known to everyone as Kinny. A family friend, he was racing Formula 2 and Formula 3 Cars in Europe and England where the racing season ended in October and resumed in April. This break coincided perfectly with the season in Calcutta, not to mention our desire to field a competitive car and driver combination. Though the Q'marri was nowhere near the technology of Formula Car racing, Kinny, ever the good sport, agreed to drive. We now had a racing team and went racing . Thus was I forever changed.

Watching Kinny and the Q'marri win at Barrackpore was always thrilling, especially when time handicaps meant he            started off last. Competition in the saloon car class came from Peter Adams' and Mackertich's hot rod Heralds, and    Choudhuri's Ambassador. There were others, but I remember these three were the real competition and the racing was   always keen, fast and frantic. Kinny's natural flair amazed us all and spiced up the action on the track. Off it, his charm and savior faire added immeasurably to the ambience that was Barrackpore in the '60s.

Kinny, on occasion, raced the Q'marri against The Specials. My favourites were Mike Satow's "Cheetah" and Dicky Richards' "Bijou", two redoubtable race cars and drivers. The Cheetah was beautiful, with sumptuous sports car lines, her deep growl reinforcing the impression that she was one fleet-footed feline. I remember Mike Satow as tall, quintessentially British, the big boss at ICI and sparing no effort to bring out the animal in his car. Dicky Richards, a local lad who flew Dakotas for a living, burned the candle at both ends to make his jewel sparkle and glow. The Bijou was a gem of an open wheeler, its Fiat Engine and gearbox more than a match for any and all comers. Their duels were legendary, the crowds always cried for more.

Their were other Specials, most notable among them Ferozeshah's innovative machines and the David Brothers designs, all state of art then - multiple carburetors, racing camshafts, big brakes, ported heads, tuned exhausts, independent suspensions, low slung and light, and I loved them. Kinny won often enough to help us forget that racing meant breakdowns, lost races and heartache too. Winning also meant Fame (with a capital F), a trophy, and the additional fillip of a kiss from the always lovely ladies who gave away the prizes. I soaked it all up like a sponge.

One day, after a big win, Kinny offered a romp round the circuit. If he got carried away that day, in comparison I was transported. Kinny drove, I flew. Flung sideways through the corners and forward under furious breaking, this little enthusiast lapped it up and longed for more. Even after years of racing experience, I never quite understood that yearning to go faster. Until recently, when I chanced upon Aldous Huxley's "Moksha", a collection of of his inimitable thoughts on consciousness and the visionary experience. At last, here was someone with a firm grip on the ineffable:

"The automobile is sufficiently small and sufficiently near the ground to be able to compete, as an intoxicating speed- purveyor, with the galloping horse. The inebriating effects of speed are noticeable, on horseback at about twenty miles an hour, in a car at about sixty. When the car has passed seventy-two, or thereabouts,  one begins to feel an unprecedented sensation..... It grows intenser with every increase of velocity. I myself have never traveled at much more than eighty miles an hour in a car; but those who have drunk a stronger brewage of this strange intoxicant tell me that new marvels await anyone who has the opportunity of passing the hundred mark. "

There is nothing quite like the kick delivered by physics in a fast car. As far as I'm concerned, nothing else need apply .

Ravi Kumar
© 2000

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