I was already nervous for my driving test; little did I know what I had in store for me. After my pre-test driving lesson, my regular instructor did her best to calm my nerves. We made our way to the test centre, and I waited patiently, armed with my documentation, sitting, waiting for my examiner to arrive. Ten minutes later, a small petite woman, with red hair stepped into the room. After she read out my name to identify who I was, I eagerly stood up. With no handshake or at least eye contact I accepted the uncomfortable greeting, and had subsided from the bundle of nerves I was just a few minutes before..

I took the pen handed to me and wearily signed the relevant documentation, and then we were off to go. My driving instructor wished me well, and I made my way to the car. We both took our places in the car, and then the questioning began. I answered the standard two questions that were compulsory, but I had absolutely no idea what was next in line. She introduced herself, and then asked how would be best to pronounce my name, which I was fine with. The keys turned the ignition on and we were set to go. Then the real bombardment of questions began. It was worse than Mastermind to say the least.

“So, are you studying at the moment?” she asked, to which I replied, “No currently I’m in the process of looking and applying for jobs, I only graduated last month.” I thought that she was just being friendly, trying to break the ice.

But then, at every set of red traffic lights, I was asked a barrage of questions. “Where are you from?” knowing full well what kind of answer she had expected, I replied with “London.” In all honesty I did not find it necessary to explain that my parents were born in Africa, moved to India, and then settled in London. It was neither here nor there. I had a feeling that was not the answer she had wanted, “Where are your parents from?” She questioned me, to which I replied with “India.” At the time I thought this was totally pointless, but carried on driving.

Hoping this would be the last of the questions, I came to another red light, “So what does your name mean?” I know the answer, and was prepared to answer her, but before I could even begin to get my words out, she answered it herself, with “Because most Indian names mean a garden full of roses.” I was completely blown away by this, why could she just not wait for me to answer; she gave a little laugh, and I gave her a false answer. These irrelevant questions were not important to me, and so I responded “emotional.” This is not what my name means, but I did not want to answer her long string of questions; I just wanted her to shut up and let me take my driving test!

All I wanted to do was drive. My eyes were darting everywhere, scanning the roads, on the lookout for pedestrians, or any potential hazards.

What really made me worried was the next statement, “Well, I hope you don’t get all emotional on me!” Now what the hell was this supposed to mean? Questions were racing through my head; does this mean that I had failed? I had no clue what-so-ever, and was totally shocked. I could tell she really disliked me, especially with the last comment. I was hoping that this would be the end of the personal questions, I could really do without.

Completing the manoeuvres, checking my mirrors and in full concentration I reached the next set of traffic lights that screwed me over. Green…amber…RED! “So, I’ve always wanted to know, do you prefer a curry, or burger and chips?”

What was she thinking? She was taking me on a driving test, and how dare she ask me such a thing? It took me by disbelief. What relevance had this to driving at all? Was I supposed to answer her probing questions? Why did I get the feeling that she loathed me? I really wanted to try and please her, and I felt as though I just was not trying hard enough. I wanted to give her the answer she was expecting, and I surprised myself, when I replied with “burger and chips.” Should it really matter? Would preferring a curry make me more “Indian?” I think not.

“So you’re a proper English girl then?” she said, and I just laughed it off. It bugged me. I felt so hypocritical, after all, once curry was the favourite dish of the country, was it not? I eat curry everyday of the week, and on some occasions I’d like a pizza and chips. But does it really make me English?

There was no way I could possibly take her comments light-heartedly; but in this case I did so in a desperate attempt to please this strange lady. I am British born and raised, and proud of it. It is not like I am putting on a fake English accent, to try and fit in. I know where my roots lie and the history to go with it.

There just seemed to be this underlying motive for her questioning, I just could not figure out what it was. This was forty-five minutes of hell I had endured, and will never forget. The end result was that I had failed my driving test. I guess in some ways I had been expecting that, but I still had a glimmer of hope in me. With a 30 second debrief (literally), she patronisingly pointed out where I had made my mistakes. Leaving the test centre, my driving instructor was upset that the conduct of the test was harsh and demeaning; but I was far from it. Frustration and anguish were the words. I was annoyed, I had let a stern; unworthy woman ask me outrageous questions. I’m sure the immigration officers are more lenient. To be frank, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had asked me for my passport.