During my university years, my Dad was posted in a quaint little, most beautiful place in India.

Being a valley city, snugged lovingly between the high mountain ranges on both sides, Dehradun boasted of an awesome weather and the worst, tiny, winding , narrowest roads .

Me, a fresh school pass out felt the whole city was my oyster. Ever since I had become the proud owner of a two-wheeler, which of course came with a long do's and don'ts from Dad,

I was too keen to relish my new found independence. University life beckoned with loads of excitement and adventures, so who cared about anything else.

Driving in a small city is like playing a video game on beginner mode— there's definitely a certain charm to it, a rhythm that feels like the town itself is winking at you every time you hit a green light, but the potholes and unruly drivers make sure that you literally are on your feet all the time (in a two-wheeler it's advisable to brake with your feet too).

Drivers who think a girl on wheels is simply all alone in the world and it's their duty to tease her as much as possible are a plenty. So whistles, snide remarks, sudden braking or coming in front of the vehicle are just part of the game. And if you react back, surely you're inviting more trouble for yourself.

There's no concept of wearing helmets and rush hour is adorable. The local radio DJ knows half the drivers by name, and traffic updates sound more like gossip:

"Looks like Bob's truck is stalled again outside the bakery—hope he grabs a cinnamon roll while he's at it!"

Parking is less a challenge and more a game of "How close can I get to the door?" In a small city, you can park three feet from the entrance to a restaurant and still wonder if that's too far. And parallel parking? It's basically an endangered skill—there's always a giant diagonal spot waiting for you like a golden retriever wagging its tail.

The streets hardly had proper names and directions often included phrases like "just past the old gas station that's now a grocery place" or "turn left from Uncle Jon's house."

There's also a unique camaraderie among drivers. A wave from the steering wheel is a full conversation:

"I see you. I know you. I respect your 12 mph around this corner because the pothole's a beast."

Sometimes, you get behind someone doing 25 in a 40, and you can't be mad because it's probably your uncle, or your friend's mom, or someone who once made you the best pie of your life. So you smile, relax, and soak in the slower pace. There's nowhere to be in too much of a hurry anyway—except maybe while going to the bookshops at Rajpur Road or Elloras before they close at 8.

So yeah, driving in a small city isn't about speed or efficiency. It's about friendliness, avoiding getting eve-teased, local charm, and remembering that the guy in the truck ahead of you might also be the Geology professor, your neighbor, or the guy who fixed your brakes last week.

And if you ever forget where you're going? Don't worry. Someone's bound to wave you down and say, "Hey! You missed your turn again!"

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