Black Beauty Escapades

Another day, as usual, had passed by like a blur. There was a lot going on on many fronts. I rested my pained body on my couch staring into space. I looked at the watch and it was eight in the evening. Many of my friends from all over the world had been partying in Goa since days and I was getting another one of those incessant calls to come there. I was contemplating on ideas of love and life.

Flash. I got up, picked up my helmet, put in one t-shirt, towel, swimming gear and my toothbrush in my laptop bag and headed out of the door. My small bag was bursting at its seams. The decision, to go, as it seemed, was not one which jelled with the energies of the universe. My key chain, which was anyway symbolic, a small brass chariot wheel with one wheel missing, completely came off. Black Beauty, as I lovingly call my faithful motorbike, refused to start. At least five of the closest people in my life called me in a matter of ten minutes. I felt like I was going to die if I went. So, I fixed the key chain, force started the bike and told everyone that I'm fine. It was surreal and the thought of so many signs at once did not leave my being for the next hour. My heart was beating fast. I kept driving. 

Then I realised a very important fact, I did not know the way. Now, how does one know the way to a place six hundred kilometers away. One imagines it'll be straight, like highways normally are but I was wrong. I had driven for about two hours and was faced with two big boards, both pointed in different directions and both had Pune written on it with different highway numbers. So I did my mental coin tossing after not finding anyone around to ask and turned to the left. Another fifty odd kilometers went by and there was no signage. I wondered where I was but kept going. Suddenly, almost out of nowhere, there were four official highway patrol cars with flashing lights flagging me down. For a moment I felt like a criminal from one of those FBI video's. They told me that I was on a fast expressway where two wheelers were not allowed. It seemed like a major offense in the manner they spoke to me. I apologized, but they insisted on taking me to the police station. So, two hours into my journey, it was interrupted. I felt that the universe had had enough of me, it gave me a hundred signs to not be so dumb and outrageous and now it sent the police after me. I was prepared to spend the night at the station.

As I entered a dingy little shack, I was immediately handed a cup of tea. The inspector took one look at my bike number which was a delhi registration, another look at my attire which was a tibetan om t-shirt with flowy harem style pyjamas and immediately came up with a story inside his head that I was a restless traveller. He seemed very impressed and almost fell to my knees when I told him that I work in films. He had many ideas of scripts and songs. We debated, chatted and sang old film songs for an hour, his men who had flagged me down gave each other puzzled looks, and finally, I casually got up and said I should go. His so-called 'power men' were instructed like servants to escort me to the nearest diversion off the expressway. I sat in the front seat like a king trying to make conversation with them but they just gave monosyllabic responses so I kept shut. 

I was left at a junction in the middle of nowhere. There was no street lamp, no person, no sign of existence, not even the night time animal sounds. So much for pushing up my ego with the power men. I was faced with a narrow meandering road with a dense forest on both sides and the trees shaking hands above me. There was complete silence and I felt it to be a cinematic moment. So, shifting the background music in my head from low frequency silence to warrior drum beats, I kick-started the Black Beauty, had a moment of connection with it and started off. Thirty minutes into the dense forest, there was still no civilization. I started singing songs to myself to kill the eerie silence around me, even the moonlight couldn't find its way to me. An hour passed. Nothing.

Finally I saw a lone kerosene lamp with an old man making tea for himself sitting by it. I asked him for the way to Goa, he didn't seem to understand my language. I stopped and asked for a cup of tea, he gave me half of his cup. I was a bit hesitant at first but went for it. As soon as I took a sip, he smiled. That I couldn't figure out. I imagined him sitting in the same place since decades waiting for someone to come and share a cup of tea with him. We sat facing the forest, both with cups of tea and a lamp between us and did not speak a word. I smiled at him and I tried to pay him as I got up. He did not accept any money. Just pointed to a trail nearby. I gestured if he was sure. He put his hand on my shoulder and speaking for the first time told me in broken hindi, 'to trust'.

So I ventured into the trail and the black beauty started missing, probably because of being manhandled by those highway rogue's. It was like it was coughing and I rubbed its fuel tank, talking to it and trying to make it feel better. It gathered the necessary courage almost immediately and zoomed off. 

The highway welcomed me a few hours later and the first signboard said: Goa-620 kms. I went on the other side to see how far I had come and it said: Mumbai-50 kms. Well, after 5 hours of leaving Mumbai, I was actually only an hour away. I was facing the mumbai milestone and I almost felt like telling myself to quit and return home. At the precise moment I had that thought, my bike revved up without my doing anything and I had to control the involuntary race with the clutch. I thought of it as a sign to go then but this problem would plague me for my entire journey. 

So began my conquest of never ending winding roads. There is this extremely frustrating thing about Indian highways. The kilometer readings are all mixed up. It says 620, then when you've travelled for an hour, it'll confidently tell you 560, after half hour more it'll say 580. I stopped seeing the milestones beyond a point, they were frustrating and demotivating. 'What the fuck is wrong with you milestone?' No response. 

This detail would be incomplete without me mentioning the joy of traveling on a bike. It's a freeing feeling with the engine whirring under you, the wind invading your senses and 'being' and you zipping past the landscape, feeling every moment of it. Its like you're suddenly much more aware and alive. The good thing was that I had just bought a helmet a couple of days ago and one with a good visor. I tried to get a feel of the wind against my face and all I got, at least in the night, was mosquito’s in my eyes. So, every some kilometers I had to clean my windshield off the mosquito dead bodies. It was a massacre and I wasn't very happy with the feeling of having killed so many. I mourned every time. 

Another thing about this highway was that they had made the roads to be really good. They were smooth, there was less traffic and one could go at a really high speed on the straight stretches. But, in between these long stretches, there would more than often be these really really bumpy patches of unfinished road. Expected this of the official highway organisation. So, being constantly careful and alert was of essence. The signs had to be proved wrong.

It was 2 a.m now and my eyes were giving away. I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. I was crying for a hotel to come by but none came for about an hour. My butt and back was seriously hurting. This was a hotel with a locked grill gate. I tried to open it, couldn't. Desperate, I started banging against the grill. One of the men woke up, opened the gate, gave me an absurd rate for a room for four hours, none of us were in any state to have a bargain battle so I gave him my figure and he agreed. This was one of the dirtiest hotel rooms I had ever encountered. Being a freak, I thought of cleaning it (they had very strategically placed a broom and mop in one corner of the room) but simply passed out on the rickety bed. 

I woke up to a knocking sound on my door exactly three hours later. It was the groggy guy wanting his room vacated. I said I have an hour more, he said no and just stood there. I craned my neck to look at the corridor on either side, the hotel was empty, all doors were locked from outside and here was this bizarre guy wanting his lone 'taken' room back. I took out a hundred-rupee note, put it in his shirt pocket and shut the door on his face. An hour later, he was there again but this time I was ready with my bag. I walked past him.

Now, there was one thing I didn't account for all my craziness, the cold. It was cold, freezing cold and there was fog. This was just the hills, not the Himalayas, I said to myself. So, I put on the extra t-shirt I had over the current one and journeyed on. Five hours more of continuous driving and it was time for breakfast. This was a restaurant on a hilltop with no town fifty kilometers either way and it had a menu which ran into some twenty odd pages. I ambitiously ordered scrambled eggs and a hot chocolate. What came was a cheese omelet with a glass of milk with bournvita on the side. These people were living in some different world altogether. I didn't contest my meal, the waiter looked at me with a gleeful expression. I left him a generous tip. He came running as I left, saying I had left my money. I told him to keep it and he looked back like I was god-sent and had just saved his dying son's life. 

The drive continued. It didn't seem to end. Ghats, hills, mountains, ocean, forest, rocky roads, forest again, hills... the landscape was truly thrilling. I drove like a man on a mission. Finally, I was a hundred kms away from Goa. My stomach was grumbling again. Lunch stop. I walked into a dhaba, again in the middle of nowhere.

An old man smoked sitting outside, a boy of ten was cleaning the dishes, a woman, maybe the boy's mother sat on the floor in a corner staring into space. The boy asked what I wanted, I asked what he had and he rattled off with the menu. I only caught egg and curry and roti. So that was decided. After waiting for about an hour, I saw his mother walking in with a packet full of fresh tomatoes and other ingredients. OKAY, now this was not happening. They were just starting to cook my meal, from scratch. I gave the little boy a troubled look and all he told me was, 'All is well'. I smiled and sat back.

Ten minutes later, the boy and the mother were having an argument. Half cut tomatoes lay untouched. That was it. I picked up the knife and starting making my lunch. They felt apologetic but I had to take charge. So, old man, little boy and grumpy woman, all joined in and we made a splendid lunch, for all of us. We sat and ate together like a family. They fed me like a son who had returned from war. The old man blessed me. The woman almost packed some left over food for me which I politely refused. The little boy hugged me and asked if I would take him with me. Now this was becoming way too cinematic for me. I told him in a very 'full of wisdom' like voice that he would one day find his own way. He looked at me with straight eyes and told me that he wanted to go… NOW. I said no and zoomed off, thinking in retrospect that I had just paid for a lunch I cooked.

Goa, one km left. My heart was beating faster and I was thrilled that I had made it. I entered beautiful Goa and called my friends. They were someplace I had not heard of. On asking around, they told me that this place was another hundred kms away. This broke me. Another hundred… for god’s sake. So again started the longest lap of my ride. Finally, I made it. 

We were at a secluded beach in South Goa. My whole Goa experience was a mix of reading, sleeping, walking, drugs, sex, alcohol, love, pain, expensive wine, silence and a lot more. The less said about it, the better, in the interest of myself and other parties involved. Although, our hotel cum favorite restaurant cum bar is worth mentioning. They would normally take an hour to get an order, only after at least five reminders. Else, they would just forget. Sometimes we would order and just go for a walk. Sometimes we would come back, sometimes not. Nobody would mind.

Goa happened. And Black Beauty had rested for two full days. I had a charming breakfast and was tired after getting no sleep at night but still left with a vengeance. 

At least I knew the way now. So I zoomed. I was much more free mentally and emotionally, so I was enjoying the view around. It was breathtaking and every so often, I would stop to just sit and admire. 

The day passed with a lot of driving and an occasional stop for tea, snacks and a late lunch. I couldn't find the places I had been to on my way earlier. The sun had set and I still had five more hours to go. I was driving through the treacherous winding hills in the night. I didn't think much of it earlier until someone decided to spray a lot of sand on a really steep curve. Black Beauty slipped. I went flying off towards the railing which had a deep cliff on its other side. I could see myself fly in slow motion. My whole life passed by me in a flash, the signs of death which I had got also did and I thought that this was it. At that last thought, my hand hit and clasped onto the railing. I was on the cliff side of the railing and holding on to my dear life. There was silence... for the longest time. I did not dare look down. All I could see was the ring on my thumb finger. I tried to shout. I could not. My vocal chords seemed to have gone mute. There was no one to hear me for at least a hundred kms anyway. So, almost like maradona's 'hand of god', my left hand also brought itself to the railing and pulled me up. There was a slight sigh of relief. I remembered my mac was in my bag. I pulled it out to see if it was working fine.

This was a funny sight in retrospect. Me sitting with my beaten bike on a hill in the middle of nothingness and darkness staring at the apple logo in the middle of my screen. Mental check happened: Don't carry your mac on a long journey, especially on a bike. I checked on Black Beauty, it was smashed from the front. The one wheel chariot keychain was missing. I was free, finally. I did some fixing up by hand and tried to work it. I had just been saved from death by an inch and was just too lucky at that moment to be stuck there with the bike having broken down. 

It started immediately. The headlight was pointing in a weird right hand top direction. But I had no reason to complain. I waited for the next car to come along. So, the rest of my drive in the nighttime was spent just taking cover behind cars. Some were slow, some were fast and some were just irritating enough to have no consistency. One of them was of note. A driver who was the probably the best I had ever encountered. Driving an SUV, the overtaking was perfect, every decision perfectly timed and calculated, no speed irregularities, just balanced precise driving. I had a lovely time following this car and it somehow understood my need and fell right in line to help. As soon as I had to go my own way, I thought of peeping into the car and see this marvel of a man and it was a beautiful woman. That was a moment. I would have married her at the time if she asked. I smiled at her, she smiled back, gave me a casual sailor's salute and drove off. The women in my life... always of note. 

Mumbai at last. I entered the city and I felt I had gone for years and now returned. As I was basking in the happiness of the moment, Black Beauty choked and stopped. I was out of fuel. 

I got off and with all the courage I had left, starting doing my final lap on foot. The road seemed never ending and I was an hour away from home. An old sikh man on a beat-up bike appeared out of nowhere and told me to arrange for some rope. I told him I had none. He started looking around in the bushes around as if he knew the exact spot. I was too exhausted to debate or make sense of what was happening. It suddenly struck me… there was someone who was helping me. I shook myself up and tried to get my tired brain to think. The towel. I took it out and his face lit up. Only a sikh man can do this in this country, be so eager to help another and go out of his way at it. So he tied the towel to the back of his bike and since it was not very long, I had to hold onto it with my hand and the bike steering with another. I held onto my towel as tight as I could and we kept driving. He was a crazy angel of a man. While we were doing the balancing act, he wanted to talk to me about random things about me and him. All I could think of was the towel which was slipping out of my hand, one millimeter at a time. I noticed my hands, they were black and burnt from the sun. I was two shades closer to my Black Beauty and another five away from my White Beauty.

We made it to the fuel station and then his bike refused to start. I got off from mine and wanted to help. Then I heard him talk to his bike and I was so happy to know that I'm not the only inanimate object talking crazy person around. I touched his feet, he hugged me instead. And we went our ways.

So, I reached home.