And then, it RAINED........

The A/C in office was not working – and it was like one of those government offices that they typically show in the serials and movies (a bit more dramatized than they actually are). I thought to myself ‘It’s just March! And it’s not Nagpur or Rajasthan or the Rann of Kuchh!’ I felt swindled.

All through the past year, I had heard that Bangalore is the place to be if u like moderate weather. Neither the winter, nor the summer had appealed to my sense of moderateness. Rains were supposed to be regular and make it difficult to move out of the house. Winters were supposed to make you want to pull out the blankets and go into deep hibernation on weekends. When none of that happened, I started looking forward to the summer.

Moderate summers according to definition are supposed to have a daytime temperature of around 25degrees. That would have made it ideal to ride during the weekends and move out in the sun freely. Some weather to look forward to.

Finally March arrived – and brought with it the regular Indian summer (which I had not been expecting). True – it was cooler than Nagpur, but then whoever had said that the summers in Bangalore were mild was lying according to me.

The trees that had a full bloom – which had colored the roads of Bangalore yellow, lavender and red – were slowly shedding the flowers. It was their desperate last attempt to try to appease Mother Earth so that she’d control her elder child, the Sun, from troubling them for the time being. To no avail.

The Sun continued tormenting, it kept on dancing across the sky raining fury – as if it was cursing the people who had wished it to go away last year and almost succeeded. It was the spoilt brat who knew that he could get almost anything he wanted – he knew his importance too well. And he danced in mockingly.

While I had lunch, wiping my brow and cursing the heat, it was almost as if the Sun smiled wickedly. I gave up hope and started looking forward to one of the hottest summers I had ever witnessed.

Surprisingly, that evening, the heavens were bathed in a soft orange glow. Clouds had gathered around to horizon to wish the Sun goodnight. As the night progressed, the moon played hide and seek among the clouds. Occasionally it bathed the ground with its soft white light, otherwise leaving the city to be illuminated by its own light reflected from the clouds. It was just getting more beautiful. The soft breeze brought with it the fragrance of fresh rain and pushed the clouds to allow the Moon to peek at the Earth and then again disappear. It was the first sign that the parched Earth was quenching its thirst – somewhere, unknown to me. It filled me with a strange happiness. I knew that it won’t rain much (if it did at all). But then, it did not matter. All that mattered was that it would provide much needed respite from the heat. It would wash the trees green, the roads black, would make people want to bunk office and be tucked in bed, would make the more adventurous step out. That it would partially set things right.

And even as I thought all this, the first drop of rain broke gently against me. It was there, to make us smile, to make us happy, to wake us up the next morning with a rhythmic patter. I went to bed, comfortable and smiling. I knew that the next morning would be one of the most beautiful ones I'll wake up to.

And then it rained…..

10500 meters above....

I stared out of my window to look at what I could see outside. The sky was clear, a darker than usual blue. It was a desolate place. And I seemed to be inching along the surface of the earth, which was far below. “Damn!”

I had not seen home in 3months. At that moment in time, I recalled that crazy moment in which I had made the decision to get back home for the weekend. The night before had been sleepless, and the week in office slow and boring. (Frankly February 2010 has been the slowest month among all I have spent in my entire life.) After an early morning ride to the airport, and a security check, had been allowed inside the aircraft. Fifteen minutes later, the jets had been fired up and the aircraft was almost stationary at the start of the runway. It would have looked like a sprinter ready for the 100meters ahead of him. Fingers barely touching the ground, the left leg in its toes for support, and the right foot firmly on the ground – as if the energy for the sprint was being derived from the earth. And then the restraint was released. The jets thrust the aircraft forward, forced a smile on my face, and pushed me back to my seat. (I wonder why we need seatbelts.) And within no time, it soared, mocking the gravity of the earth.

It kept on rising higher, till I could see the highway and the stationary vehicles on it. Till I could see the earth blurred by the haze. Till I could see, the soft blanket of clouds stretching out into the horizon, and finally till a point where I was floating in the vast ocean that envelopes the earth and protects it. The few clouds that I could spot were like distant islands that were meant to be explored.

I looked out of the window with the joy a kid feels. I looked down on the green brown patches. At dried up river beds, and the black strips of highways. I wondered, whether, I could race at some of those places or probably just ride till there for the heck of it. I must have been halfway through to home by this point in time.

Still, there was something that I had missed. I pondered on it for a while, and dug up a few memories of going back home. The happiness of going back home was not as rich as it had been the previous times. And finally I found the reason that might have diluted the happiness. When you travel in a bus or a train, you are moving slowly towards the destination. It allows time for the whirlwind of emotions to settle down. It’s always fun to wave goodbye to a city hanging out from the door of the train (which you cannot do in a flight). Nor can your relatives come to see you off and cry on the runway (which they can on a platform).

When I used to come home from Mumbai, I used to enjoy the moment when the train used to pass through Kurla. The train rushed past a wall of people, which used to make me feel that all that there was in the city was insignificant for the moment and all that mattered was the journey back home. But, none of these came close to what I felt when the train used to pull slowly towards Nagpur. The railway crossing announcing the proximity of Nagpur. The stadium welcoming you. And finally the sleepy roads just waking up to the soft coaxing of the morning sun. All this was something I was not able to see, feel, relish.

My chain of thought was broken by the captain’s announcement – “Ladies and Gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts. We will be beginning our descent to land at Nagpur”. And after a few gut twisting turns, I was back on the ground. The warm wind hit my face playfully and welcomed me back home. I had arrived, in time for my short stay at home and I was not complaining.

I had missed the slow simmering emotions that take over when I travelled by slowed modes, but then I was where I wanted to be. Probably, this time, the destination was more important than the journey. And I happily hopped into my car with my brother and father, happy to be home. I was wrong - the happiness was not diluted.

Why do I ride?

Why do I love to ride?

I have been asked this question many times.  (By various people of course) And my answer has never been the same. When I went to Chitradurga, in December last year, a few of my friends thought that I was crazy. Their suspicions were confirmed when I decided to ride to Mumbai alone. (I’ll let you know more about when I write next.) But then the question remained…. I’m trying to fish out a few of my thoughts on that – from a storm of thought that clouds up my head when someone asks me this question.

“Don’t you get bored? Riding alone is so boring”

No my friends, if you don’t want to be found painted all over the highway, or if you love your motorbike and don’t want it to be found under some drunk truck driver’s axle, you won’t get bored. Plus, it’s kind of challenging. For me, the thrill of it all comes from the fact that there is beast that might get out of control if you tend to lose focus. And that the power to control has been given to you, or you have chosen the power to control to be yours – whichever way you see it.

It’s very unsafe on the highway….

Tell me – whether the city streets are safe? You might get hit by an irate state transport bus – someone who you cannot hold accountable. You might be hit by some son of a gun whom you cannot touch. You might be robbed at night or if you are really unlucky, in broad daylight.

The relationship between a rider and his/her motorbike is intensely person. The motorbike gets tunes to the way its owner would ride. In fact I have at many times felt that motorbikes feel it when their master wants them to really perform and when the master is just trying to push it. My motorbike has never failed me even a single time when I really needed to get to some place fast or just wanted to get a thrill. You cannot get that kind of a response from anything you own.

Add to it the fact that there is nothing stopping you from moving ahead, or from stopping over when u see a beautiful location and just want to savor it for a few more minutes. The fact that it makes you feel supremely independent knowing that you and only you have the right to decide whether to move ahead or stop, whether to go straight or take a turn onto a dusty unmapped road, whether to leave at 5am or to start off at 1pm. You don’t have to be stranded in the traffic in a bus, or keep standing at the bus stop for an hour, or get stranded at the train station for the whole night. When you own a motorbike, you are free, and you are proclaiming your love for being that way. That is one of the most important things that make me want to ride. Yes, you might be bogged down by a few punctures, oil leaks or breakdowns. But then it’s something that is a part of our normal life.          

Why not drive a car then? It’s safe and it gives you the freedom. Because, it’s not real. It’s a shell which has climate control, is designed for safety and not for enjoying the raw pleasure of being out on the road. In a car, u can roll up the windows, play music, turn on the A/c, and you won’t feel a thing. But on a motorbike, you hear the wind, the sound of the motor beneath you, a little pain in your shoulders (after a long hard ride), dust and grime cling to your face, you see the road pass beneath your feet and hear the trucks with their screaming past you – and you realize that it’s all real. Once you’re on the road, you forget, the terrible boss in office, the demanding girlfriend, the boring 9 – 5 jobs, the desk, the city, the people who laugh at you, and the people who fake smiles, people who think you are crazy. You are intoxicated, by the sheer pleasure that the road and the motorbike are capable of giving you – the pleasure of knowing that nothing matters out here except you, your motorbike and the ever welcoming ever hostile road.

Then you feel like GOD!