My love affair with Jeeps started long before I ever owned one. I was in my mid-teens in India when I watched Jackie Shroff in the movie Hero. Remember that song, “Ding Dong O Baby Sing A Song”? There was Jackie, driving that beautiful old Jeep through the countryside with his girl beside him. Jackie was cool. The scenery was beautiful. The girl was certainly part of the attraction. Come on, I was a teenager! But somewhere between the music, the romance, and that rugged old Jeep, something happened. I fell in love. Now, whether I fell in love with the girl, the Jeep, or the idea of driving a Jeep with a beautiful girl beside me is still open for debate. But one thing is certain: the Jeep stayed in my heart.
It wasn't fancy. It didn't have leather seats, a giant touchscreen, or a computer that constantly reminded you how badly you were driving. It was rugged, simple, adventurous, and gloriously imperfect. It looked like freedom on four wheels. I remember thinking, One day, I'm going to own one of those. As fate would have it, a Jeep was also the very first vehicle I ever drove. I still remember that magical moment when I first got behind the wheel and she started moving. Some firsts never leave you. Like your first crush or that first glorious sip of an ice-cold Kingfisher on a hot Indian afternoon! And trust me, that first Jeep ride was right up there.
Life Happened. But the Jeep Never Left My Heart.
Of course, life had other plans. College happened. Work happened. Marriage happened. Children happened. Countries changed. Careers changed. Bills arrived with remarkable punctuality. Somewhere along the way, that carefree teenager from India became a husband, a father, a businessman, and a man with more responsibilities than he had ever imagined. But deep inside, that boy who watched Jackie Shroff driving through the countryside was still there. And he still wanted his Jeep. So years later, when I could finally afford one, I bought her. Not just a Jeep. My Jeep.
Never Stop Dreaming, No Matter How Old You Get
I've always believed that every human being should have a dream growing up. Not just a passing wish, but something to hold on to, something that becomes a benchmark against which we can measure our journey through life. I've had many such benchmarks over the years. Some were big, some were small, some were serious, and a few were probably downright ridiculous! But each one gave me something to look forward to, something to work toward, and eventually, something to look back on with a smile.
Owning a Jeep was one of those childhood dreams. It may not sound like a great accomplishment to some people, but to that teenage boy in India watching Jackie Shroff drive through the countryside, it meant the world. And boy, am I glad I got to tick that box! Who says dreams don't come true? Sometimes they just take a few decades, a lot of hard work, and a little patience. And when they finally do, the joy isn't just in owning what you dreamed of. It's in remembering the boy who dared to dream in the first place.
I think we should all occasionally look back at the dreams we had when we were young. Not to count what we failed to achieve, but to celebrate how far we've come. Life has a funny way of keeping us so busy chasing tomorrow that we forget to appreciate yesterday's dreams that have already come true. And my old Jeep is a beautiful reminder of one of mine.
Today, after more than 154,000 miles, she is still with me. Now, any sensible person would probably tell me it's time to trade her in. There are newer vehicles with better technology, better fuel economy, smoother rides, quieter cabins, and seats that don't remind you of every pothole you've driven over. But sensible people don't always understand love. And love, as we all know, has never been particularly sensible.
My Man Cave Has Four Wheels
Some men have a man cave in their basement. Others have a garage filled with tools, a giant television, or a recliner nobody else is allowed to sit in. Mine has four wheels. My old Jeep is my man cave, my fortress, my sanctuary, and sometimes my therapist. And unlike a therapist, she doesn't charge by the hour!
There are days when I don't even need to go anywhere. I simply climb inside, close the door, and sit. No meetings. No deadlines. No business decisions. No spreadsheets. No phone calls demanding immediate attention. For a little while, I don't have to be the businessman, husband, father, boss, or problem solver. I can simply be Vish. Sometimes I listen to music. Sometimes I think. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I replay conversations in my head and come up with brilliant responses about three hours too late. And sometimes I do absolutely nothing, which, at this stage of my life, is a highly underrated luxury.
My Jeep has heard my favorite songs hundreds of times. She has listened to my frustrations, my celebrations, my prayers, and probably a few conversations that are best left between the two of us. She knows things about me that even my family doesn't know. Fortunately, she talks only to me.
154,000 Miles of Memories
An odometer is a funny thing. It tells you exactly how far a vehicle has traveled, but absolutely nothing about the journey. It doesn't record the laughter, the conversations, the arguments, or the songs sung terribly out of tune. It doesn't remember the days when everything seemed to be going right or the evenings when life felt unbearably heavy. It doesn't know about the phone calls taken while parked somewhere, the decisions made while staring through the windshield, or the quiet prayers whispered when nobody else was around. But I remember. And somehow, I like to believe she remembers too.
Every scratch has a story. Every little dent has a history. Every replaced part is evidence that we've survived another chapter together. And perhaps that is why I love Jeeps so much. A Jeep isn't supposed to be perfect. Nobody looks at an old Jeep and says, “Oh dear, it has a scratch!” Of course it has a scratch. It's a Jeep! A few scratches give her character. At least that's what I tell myself. I use the same argument when I look in the mirror these days.
We're Both Getting Older, and Neither of Us Is Happy About It
The funny thing is, my Jeep and I have been aging together. She has accumulated plenty of miles. So have I. Her suspension isn't quite what it used to be. Neither is mine. Some mornings she takes a little longer to get started. Believe me, I understand. She makes strange noises occasionally. So do I, especially when getting out of bed. Her parts need more maintenance these days. Mine do too, although I'm discovering that human replacement parts are considerably more expensive! And neither of us appreciates being pushed too hard anymore.
But here's the strange and beautiful thing. The older we get, the fonder we seem to grow of each other. I know every sound she makes. I know how she feels on the road. I know when she's happy and when something isn't quite right. Sometimes a mysterious noise makes me immediately turn down the music and ask, “What on earth was THAT?” And I suspect she occasionally asks herself the same question when I climb inside.
But we understand each other. We don't have to impress each other anymore. We've been through too much together. And perhaps that is what makes an old friendship so special. You know the imperfections. You know the history. You know the scars. And you love each other anyway.
Then I Did Something Terrible.
Now, before anyone accuses me of being unfaithful, let me explain. My work occasionally requires me to show up looking respectable. There are meetings where arriving in something shiny, polished, and a little impressive doesn't hurt. So I did what any reasonable Jeep lover would do. I bought another Jeep! Yes, I know. Apparently, my solution to having an old Jeep was to buy a new Jeep.
My new girl is gorgeous. She has everything: a big touchscreen, wireless connectivity, cameras, sophisticated safety features, comfortable seats, modern technology, and enough electronic gadgets to make me wonder whether I'm driving a vehicle or operating a small spaceship. She is quiet, refined, sophisticated, and beautiful. She looks wonderful pulling into those fancy meetings. I love her too. But she has one little problem. She doesn't have 154,000 miles of me in her.
She doesn't know my stories yet. She hasn't heard enough of my music. She hasn't shared enough of my laughter. She hasn't sat quietly with me through enough difficult days. She doesn't yet know what it means when I close the door and simply sit there, lost in thought. Maybe someday she will. But for now, when the meetings are over, the nice clothes come off, and I don't have anyone to impress, guess where I go? Straight back to my old girl. My first love. My sanctuary. My Jeep.
The new Jeep knows where I am but the old Jeep knows who I am.
Fortunately, There's Another Woman in This Love Story
Just when I thought this was a beautiful story about a man and his Jeep, along came another woman. My older daughter. And apparently, she believes my old Jeep belongs to her. I am not entirely sure when this misunderstanding began. Perhaps one day, in a moment of fatherly affection, I made the terrible mistake of saying, “Sweetheart, one day this Jeep will be yours.”
Now, fathers, please learn from my experience. Never make such statements without consulting an attorney. Because children have a remarkable ability to hear only the words they want to hear. I said, “One day.” She heard, “Yours.” And apparently, that day has already arrived!
So we now have a small family ownership dispute. I believe the Jeep is mine. She believes the Jeep is hers. We both have our own keys. We both drive her. And neither of us seems particularly interested in surrendering our claim. For now, we have reached a rather sophisticated legal arrangement. We lend the Jeep to each other. Who is lending it to whom remains a matter of considerable disagreement. I have considered bringing in a mediator, but knowing my daughter, she would probably convince the mediator that the Jeep belongs to her too!
But Here's What My Daughter Doesn't Know
Sometimes I look at my daughter driving that old Jeep, and something happens inside me. I see her hands on the steering wheel that I've held for so many years. I see her sitting in the same seat where I've spent countless hours thinking, praying, laughing, and occasionally escaping from the world. And suddenly, it isn't about who owns the Jeep anymore. It's about time. About how quickly children grow up. About how the little girl who once depended on me for everything is now old enough to take the keys and drive away on her own.
I suppose that's one of the strange things about being a father. You spend years teaching your children how to stand on their own feet. And then one day, they do. You teach them to be independent, and when they become independent, a small part of your heart whispers, Couldn't you have waited just a little longer?
I know there will come a day when this old Jeep will truly be hers. Not because she won an argument. Not because she has her own key. But because some things are meant to be passed from one generation to the next. And when that day comes, I hope she understands what she's receiving. It won't simply be an old vehicle with a lot of miles. It will be a piece of my life. A collection of memories. A faithful companion that has traveled beside her father through some of the most meaningful years of his journey.
I hope she puts another 150,000 miles on her. I hope she fills her with laughter, music, adventures, and wonderful memories of her own. I hope she adds a few scratches, tells a few stories, and occasionally sits quietly inside when life becomes a little overwhelming. And maybe, just maybe, on one of those quiet afternoons, she'll think of her dad. Perhaps she'll smile and say, “Now I understand why he loved this old Jeep so much.” If that happens, I hope she also remembers to check the oil!
The Teenage Boy Is Still Here
Every once in a while, when I climb into my old Jeep and turn the key, something magical happens. For a brief moment, the years disappear. I'm no longer a man with responsibilities, appointments, gray hair, and an increasingly complicated relationship with my knees. I'm that teenage boy in India again, watching Jackie Shroff driving through the countryside in Hero, listening to “Ding Dong O Baby Sing A Song,” and dreaming about the day I might own a Jeep of my own.
And I wish I could reach back through those forty-something years, put my arm around that young boy, and tell him, “Hey, kid. You got your Jeep. And you know what? You even got two! But there's one little complication. Your daughter wants the first one!”
I think that teenage boy would laugh. And then he'd probably ask whether the girl from the movie came with it. Some things never change!
One Last Ride? Not Yet.
My old Jeep and I still have some miles left in us. We may be a little slower, a little noisier, and a little more expensive to maintain, but we're not finished yet. There are more roads to travel, more songs to play, more memories to make, and perhaps a few more arguments with my daughter about whose Jeep this really is.
I've come to realize that the most precious things in life aren't always the newest, the shiniest, or the most expensive. Sometimes they're the things that stayed with us. The friendships that endured. The memories that never faded. The dreams that came true. And the old Jeep that was there through it all.
One day, my daughter will have the keys for good. And when that day comes, I hope she loves this old girl as much as I do. Because maybe that's what love is really about. Not holding on to something forever, but loving it enough to eventually let it go into the hands of someone you love even more.
Until then, my old Jeep and I have a few more adventures planned. As long as she's willing to start, I'm willing to drive.
And as for that ongoing ownership dispute with my daughter?
I hope she wins.
Just not today. Dad still has a few miles left in him.
