In the life of anyone with a family and a used car the two most important people are the spouse and the car mechanic. The degree of importance depends on how old the marriage is and how old the car is. In a marriage, thorny issues are usually settled in the first five years, but with a car the problems raise their ugly head after five years.
It would follow logically from this theorem that if you do not have a spouse or a used car then there is nothing of importance in your life and thus nothing for you to worry about. Since it is safer to write about car troubles than spouse troubles, I would limit the scope of this article to the latter.
Having owned many used cars, I can safely make two general observations about mechanics.
First, they all seem to come from the province of Punjab. There must be some deep-rooted economic and sociological reasons for this provincial imbalance that I have not been able to fathom. Second, for some odd reason most car mechanics have a nickname that has nothing to do with their real name. I have come across an emaciated looking Javed alias Mota (fat), a strapping six-feet-tall man Sohail alias Boona (midget), a criminal-looking Tariq alias Pappu and an able-bodied Shahid alias Langra (lame). In one exceptional case, there was a touch effeminate Yasin alias Ghungroo (anklet bells).
Car mechanics use a bewildering array of technical terminology. A check valve morphs into ‘chakwal’ – a town in Punjab. A compressor is known as compressure, and what is usually known as a silencer or muffler gets the much more colorful name of dholki (a hand-drum). A genuine part is a “genin” part and a new car is a “zero meter gaddi”.
Car mechanics use a bewildering array of technical terminology. A check valve morphs into ‘chakwal’ – a town in Punjab
Whenever used car owners get together there is a heated discussion on which car mechanic is the best; the worst or the most crooked. Most often, there is no consensus. One car owner’s best mechanic is the most incompetent one for some other owner. Then there is the finer distinction between which mechanic is good for a particular make of car. So there is discussion on the Toyota whiz kid or the elderly Suzuki genius. Things don’t stop at the make. Further refinements in skills are discussed for the specific model year. So, while Langra may be most experienced for the 1982-1986 Corollas, he has no clue about the later models based on new technologies and for these Ghungroo, with his gentler touch, is the go-to man. Sometimes, the discussion veers into far more sophisticated expertise: who is the best Mercedes mechanic? Good mechanics for such an exalted car are considered rarer than hen’s teeth.
A mechanic's garage, Karachi
I consider myself lucky to have come across good mechanics. It does not, however, follow that I am comfortable with them. Take for example Punjab Auto Workshop in Gizri Bazaar in Karachi’s Defence area. It was my great misfortune that in a weak moment I confessed to Mr. Butt, the garage owner, that I was born in Punjab and had lived in Rawalpindi and Lahore. Since then Mr. Butt has adopted my wife, my sister (another used car owner) and myself as family. We are therefore taken for granted and subjected to the same mistreatment that is reserved for the next of kin. While Mr. Butt is a good and honest mechanic, he has one near fatal flaw: He loves to talk and hates to listen.
Recently I brought my car to his workshop. Mr. Butt was seated in his customary chair at the front-right corner of the garage and was issuing instructions to his mechanics in four-letter words.
“Salam Butt Sahib, the car is making some noise when I press the brake. Also, there is a squeaking sound coming from the front-right wheel. Can you please take a look and give me an estimate for fixing it?”
While I was telling my tale, Mr. Butt seemed lost in some other world. Finally, he looked at me and said calmly, “Welcome Vaqar Saab, how is your good-self? Long time no see. Please sit down and have a cup of tea.”
In Rawalpindi, a mechanic who specialises in Volkswagen Beetles
I persisted, “Thank you very much, Butt Sahib, but I am in a rush to get to work. Can you please give me an idea of the cost and time to fix the car?”
Mr. Butt completely ignored my protestations and shouted to one of his minions, “Chottay, get Vaqar Saab a hot cup of tea. Don’t put too much sugar!”
I am panicking now. “Butt Sahib, please, I am really short on time!”
Mr. Butt seems not to hear. “Sir, you should just drop in some time for gup-shup (chit-chat). After all, you have lived in Lahore like myself!” Mr. Butt was clearly settling down for a long innings. He had not even recognised that I was there with a car that had a problem. “ButtSahib please…”I blubbered out but he cut me short. “Come to my other workshop and you will see that with the grace of Allah I have expanded my business”.
I had clearly lost control of the proceedings. He was playing me like a puppet master. I made another feeble attempt. “Butt Sahib, I am very happy to hear this, but could you take a quick look at my car?” I might as well have been talking to a wall. Mr. Butt got up, grabbed me by my shoulder and marched me like a prisoner toward his other garage. The only thing differentiating me from a Guantanamo Bay prisoner was an orange jump suit on the latter. After being dragged through a narrow and dark alley occupied mainly by garbage and stray dogs, we arrived at the “new workshop”. It looked more like a junkyard. Since it had rained recently, the ground was covered with puddles of water mixed with black oil. Mr. Butt showed me the vehicles under repair, their history, and the history of their owners. I was resigned to my fate by then. After half an hour we returned to his home base where the tea was waiting but had gotten cold. Mr. Butt was most apologetic and ordered a fresh cup of tea. “And how is your brother-in-law? I have not seen him in a while”
I was in half a mind to pick up one of the heavy spanners and knock Mr. Butt’s head. But I was convinced that even after such a blow, he would calmly carry on the conversation.
So I gave up and tried a different tack. “Butt Sahib, just tell me when the car will be fixed”. This time, wonder of wonders, he sighed as if humouring a child, “Sir, you know what conditions are prevailing in the city. Today the markets may be closed due to a strike and I will not be able to get the required parts.”
I tried pulling out my hair but realised that I had none left. “Please just tell me when!”
Mr. Butt who had not even looked at the car divined that it will be fixed by next afternoon. I could not understand that if the parts were not available that day and the markets did not open before 11 am the next day, then by what miracle the car would be fixed by “tomorrow noon”.
But I have received an answer and make a hasty exit.
Two days later I got a call that the car was fixed and could be picked up at 5 pm. I got there at the appointed time. It was at 10 pm. After nostalgic tales about Punjab told over two cups of tea, I was told that the work was completed.
Butt Sahib is a good mechanic and the car is working fine. However, now it is me who needs repairs. Does anyone know of a car repair support group?
