Dug-Dug-Dug-Dug, the thumps try to synchronize with the beats of your heart. The elevation of your moods know no bounding, a calm and serene aura creeps over your being. There is a minimalistic difference between your presence achieving nirvana and trying to cope with being in reality. As you look up into the sky coloring itself with the lights of breaking dawn and encompassing the flight of the birds you feel elated. You feel the mystical connection, a destiny which was bound to happen, the everlasting bond being strengthened with each passing moment, the silence only being broken by the thumps!!        

 

To date back some years when a young boy pranced along the dusty path of the small town feet skipping with gay abandon, the stick in his hand drawing a following pattern behind him, he heard in the distance a rhythmic echo of an approaching motorcycle. He knew this was a special connection. He was too young to realize either its lineage, or the specialty it held, a God like presence in the hearts of those who dared to own it. Yes dared because of its whims and fancies, of its larger than life presence, of owning and caring for it at the cost of countless sacrifices. The burly men swung their legs over the saddle, their thick mustaches, long flowing hair and bare chested masculinity announcing to the world that they owned it and had the courage to experience the pleasure of the forbidden kingdom. He with tousled hair and a cheap toffee in his mouth gaped at the machines. The shiny red and chromed parts reflecting in the sunlight made him cover and blink his eyes, the glee however shown in them when he caressed his hands across the fuel tank the smooth contour flowing like honey from a jar. The awestruck eyes ran over the beautiful creases and lines which blended into each other and made the mammoth proportions seem just so perfect.

His dad did not own one but had friends who owned them. Every evening they would shatter the calmness of evenings which generally comprised of the occasional ringing of devotional bells and pious chantings heard across the homes, of people offerings their prayers to their deities. They would wring the throttles to satisfy their adrenaline rush. Many a times his dad had to hear an earful from the neighbors asking him to rope in his friends, but alas they cared less. After all they were the proud owners of the big bad bully machines. He had a keen interest in all creations which moved on two and four wheels. He knew their names, knew from the black and white catalogues which ones looked gorgeous, imitated the engine sounds and tried to build cardboard replicas of them. At the age of 8 he could not remember or pronounce Royal Enfield but knew that it was called “Bullet “. During that time the early 80’s the only competition it had was the “Yezdis’ “. Another adrenaline pumping machine which combined with the Bullets created harmony from hell. His dad had a couple of Air Force Fighter Pilot friends who were proud owners of them. Almost every evening them would come to meet his dad along with his other Bulleteer friends. It was an age when Facebook was personified and Twitter comments were delivered Face to Face. The clinking of Whisky glasses along with Pankaj Udhas playing in the background set the mood for the evening. He would sneak out in the lawn where these gorgeous beauties were parked and heave himself up on the saddle. With his legs dangling he would try and wrestle the handlebar straight. He would do the imaginary kick start and vroom into his world of fantasies, he was his role model Bacchan Ji and would kick the baddies right from the saddle itself and save the beautiful Rekha from the clutches of the leering villains.

His Dad would often loan one of the Bullets from his friends to have an occassional joyride. He did not own one himself since did not want to venture into its predictably costly ownership experiences. He was satisfied with his Bajaj Chetak the one solution to all Indian household needs. Be it getting grocery from the market, to lugging loads of cartons of medicines, since he was a Medical Representative and had to source his stock from the distributors, to taking the family for the latest Bollywood flicks in town, not forgetting carrying Grandma on the backseat for her religious commitments. Would the Bullet have done this, maybe, but not with the ease and convenience which was provided by Hamara Bajaj. It was a transition and transformation for a human being both emotionally and physically to be able to stride and ride these badasses.  He would not leave an opportunity to plead with his dad to accompany him wherever he was headed to. His dad whenever would loan the Bullet would venture out through the highways to another town some kilometers away for work or personal commitments. He sat between the fuel tank and his dad with the wind blowing on his face and in his hair, the kid sunglasses on the verge of flying off his eyes. It was a loose cannon in those days with technological advancements still a distant dream as it is the ever so changing norm of today’s world. It had the raw power to pull up speeds quickly without the ability to shed the same, however owing to its personality and people made way for the bullet (as quoted in the advertisements). He was too young to decide on whether this would be the future dream machine which he would own but was spellbound with the aura it had.

Years passed by and the he grew up saddling the then infamous 2 stroke mayhems. Yamaha RX 100 ruled the roost along with Suzuki Shoguns and Shaolins. The staccato beats from the exhaust and the crazy neck breaking acceleration ensured people had their money’s worth. His school and college days were spent on these wannabes, circling around the town with friends and occasionally girlfriends. It was an age when speed and thrills were of utmost importance to the youngsters. Wheelies, stoppies were mastered during recesses and were shown off in front of an audience. He had the opportunity to lay his hands on another icon of the era the Yamaha RD 350. It was a machine created by Satan himself. At that point of time it was the craziest and fastest machine on Indian roads. It had all the elements for a thrill seeker. He got so carried away on one fast ride on his uncle’s RD that he took it all the way on the highways. The highways of the 80’s and 90’s were not what they are today. It used to be either single laned or double laned as compared to the 6 laned highways we see nowadays. You either had to be dodging the oncoming traffic or try and avoid cattle and other elements moving on the road. It was his first tryst on the highways and he was scared and excited as hell zipping and overtaking the other vehicles. He felt a calling which later on in his life would shape up to be one of his major lifelines, a sense of freedom and abundance as the wind whipped his face, of him forgetting his human existence and transforming into a winged flyer. He had received a sound piece of mind and no dinner once he had reached back home, however the feelings he had experienced brought a smile to his face.

During that period of his teenage years the Royal Enfield had taken a backseat. He still saw them on the roads and his dad’s friends still continued to visit him every evening riding them, his fascination for them remained the same but it was not a speed monster. It was for the sedate rider and as a youngster his preferences were different. The lovelife had taken a backseat for some time. It was a temporary separation like that girlfriend who later on in your life you realize you were in love with. The realization was to come later….

Awaiting for Part 2