The Great Indian Driving Test: Where Everyone Passes Except the System



A couple of mornings ago, one of my young walkmates arrived at the lake looking unusually tense for someone who had voluntarily chosen to wake up before sunrise.

Her driving licence test, both two-wheeler and four-wheeler, was scheduled for the next day.

Now this wasn’t someone who had casually borrowed a cousin’s scooter and declared herself road-ready after two U-turns and surviving Silk Board traffic once.  

She had done things properly. She had enrolled in a professional driving school, obtained her learner’s licence through them, attended classes sincerely, and had even started independently commuting to our morning walk zone over the last fortnight to build confidence.

In short, she had approached driving with the seriousness of somebody preparing for UPSC prelims.  Yet, she was anxious.

When I asked her why she was so worried despite having “professional guidance,” she lowered her voice with the gravity usually reserved for discussing surgery reports or India-Pakistan matches.  

“The Eight test…”
Ah yes.
The legendary Eight.

That sacred geometric figure which has psychologically terrorised generations of Indians more than actual traffic ever has.

I gave her the standard elder-citizen motivational speech.
“You’ll do fine… don’t overthink… you’ve practised enough…”
The kind of reassuring wisdom seniors distribute freely despite not having reverse parked properly themselves since 1998.

The next day she was summoned to Kengeri, almost 30 kilometres away from where she lived, because apparently one cannot simply obtain a driving licence near one’s residence. The journey itself must prepare the applicant emotionally for future Indian road experiences.

After reaching there, she stood in line for nearly three+ hours.
Three+ Hours.
Hungry, exhausted, unable to even leave the queue because the testing area was in what sounded like a location selected after careful study of how far civilisation could reasonably be kept away.  No tea stalls.  No quick snacks.  Not even one suspiciously hygienic bakery selling puffs.  Just aspiring drivers and administrative despair.

Finally came the two-wheeler Eight test.
She noticed immediately that the cones were placed much closer together than those used for the car test. Ironically, she felt the car-test spacing would have been easier on a scooter.

Now like every sincere learner, she had been taught one golden rule:  “Do not let your feet touch the ground.”  So she concentrated with Olympic-level commitment on balancing the vehicle while navigating the cones. 

Result?  Four cones fell gloriously.

When she came back, the driving school instructor calmly informed her that she could actually have put her feet down for balance if required. The important thing, apparently, was not hitting the cones.  She stared at him the way taxpayers stare at budget speeches.

Before she could process this philosophical shift in traffic law, he added gently: “That’ll need another ₹500 for the RTO people.”

The cones, it appeared, were emotionally expensive.  Helplessly, she agreed.

While waiting for the car test, she watched another candidate complete the scooter Eight while touching her feet to the ground multiple times.  And what was that instructor saying?  “Cones falling is okay… feet shouldn’t touch.”

At that point, my young friend realised the driving test was less a transport procedure and more a piece of improvised theatre where the rules changed depending on the actor delivering the dialogue.

That learner too, unsurprisingly, was asked to contribute an additional ₹500 toward the “national cone rehabilitation programme.”

Then came the car test.

Her driving school brought a completely different car from the one she had trained on. Naturally.  Why create familiarity and confidence when mild panic can be included at no extra cost?

She immediately found the steering unfamiliar. The turning radius felt different, requiring more steering movement than the car she had learnt on.

Just before the test began, the instructor, who was conveniently allowed to sit beside her, paused dramatically and informed her that clearing the car test would require another ₹500.

Until that exact moment, she had genuinely believed the ₹7,500 already paid to the driving school was meant to teach her driving well enough to pass honestly.  What an innocent child!!

She was now trapped in a beautifully designed mathematical equation:
Refuse → Risk failure → Pay ₹800 again for re-test → Return to Kengeri → Repeat emotional suffering.
Or…
Pay ₹500 and achieve inner peace.

She wisely chose peace.

And then came the most educational part of the entire driving education process.

The test began.  Officially, she was the one driving.  Technically, the instructor was conducting a collaborative driving workshop from the passenger seat.

Throughout the test, including the Eight, manoeuvring, and reverse parking, she remained at the steering wheel while the instructor generously assisted with the controls, pedals, and even portions of the steering itself.

It was less a driving test and more a beautifully coordinated duet.

By the end of it, she may not have become a confident driver, but she certainly developed a nuanced understanding of India’s informal economy.

This morning she narrated the entire experience  at the lake.

She said she did not feel good about a single part of what had unfolded the previous day. And yet, moments later, she could not help feeling relieved and happy when the SMS arrived confirming that her driving licence had been processed successfully.

Which, in many ways, is the perfect summary of the system itself.  Everyone involved knows the process is absurd.
The learner knows.
The instructor knows.
The RTO knows.
The government probably knows.
Even the cones likely know.

Yet the machinery rolls on beautifully in tandem, driving schools, middlemen, unofficial payments, contradictory instructions, performative testing, and licences issued with industrial efficiency.

Policy reforms may arrive every few years promising digitisation, transparency, accountability, and ease of process.
But somewhere in a dusty test track near Kengeri, a cone quietly falls over… and another ₹500 changes hands.



Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.

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