An ode to biking in the Sahyadris...

 My inspiration for this blog...One of the numerous wet forest roads that mesmerize me...

Motorcycling in the Sahyadris is an experience one needs to experience to believe, especially if the ride happens in the monsoons. The sweet, spring like breeze carries all across the aroma of soil soaking in the first drops of rain and the heart is aware that somewhere, it has started raining. What the heart does not know, then, is the fact that the rain is heading its way. The mind foolishly sends neurons buzzing every-whichy-where asking the body to save itself from the downpour, reach shelter, run.... But the sweet perfume of the soil tickles the heart, sounding like a gentle rendition of the Jal-Tarang. The gentle vibrations strike a chord, caressing the heart, assuring that an amazing phenomenon is just round the corner. The misty clouds bend low ahead, daring one to race them to the horizon. Rain bearing clouds loom ahead. Dark, spongy clouds. I try to race the clouds to my destination, hoping that the clouds will not get a chance to wet my socks. But, in this race, I overlook  the fact that the clouds are actually begging me to experience the rain they carry. I'm confident that I'd beat the clouds but then, the clouds start gaining on me. Initially, the rain drops are only a few in number and the only purpose they serve is to obstruct my vision through the helmet visor. I carry on full throttle, racing my own self to the horizon. But gradually, my heart splits with my mind and begs me to slow down, to enjoy the rain. But, my mind has a mind of its own. The corporate world of deadlines and client appreciation has moulded it in a rigid shape, which I'm determined to break...

A few drops percolate thru my clothes and down to my skin, which reacts with joy. It reminds me that the summer heat has taken its toll and now I need to bow before the rain gods. I gradually ease the throttle, fooling no one but myself that I'm letting the clouds catch up whereas the truth is that the clouds have gained a lot of ground on me and I can see the first of what is to become a series of thinning streaks of water on my helmet visor. I speed up a little but by then, the rain bearing clouds have had their chance of catching up with me, or so I fool myself. I reduce to a crawl and let the drops fall on me generously. But, I seem to have achieved nothing more than angering the rain gods because the water droplets come at me with a vengeance and sting my neck and hands. It feels like trying to cheat the clouds out of a chance to drench me is tantamount to trying to trick some honey out of a beehive. The bees attack with the brutality of a tornado. Stinging all over. My skin appears to singe a hundred times a second as a hundred drops land on me. Miniature missiles is what comes to the mind and the invasion begins. I finally realize how Gulliver might have felt after being attacked with a thousand tiny spears...

But then, the rain shows how different it is from the bees. Once the rain gods feel that I have been punished sufficiently, they stop unleashing bees...err, killer missiles...err, water drops with a vengeance, and start sending in delicate drops akin to a fragrant, virgin Lotus leaf. They feel pure and soothing, something fit for kings which I, a mere mortal, get to enjoy. The raindrops slide across the visor, as if sliding off tender Lotus petals. The wind seems to be having fun with the clouds, swaying them across the horizon, like a toddler having fun with a paintbrush. The colours spill over and mix, resulting in a mixture which cannot be perceived individually but rather as a mélange of various colours, each as beautiful as a chord on a Guitar, a beat on a Tabla, a breath on a Flute, a string on a Sitar... Each individually beautiful and collectively indescribable.

Tricky Bends...You can see the partial mist build up too :-)

As the heavens open up vibrantly, my mind joins in the party and begs me to go riding on long, winding country roads. I forget my original destination and ride through jungles and feel the fresh air hit my face. I tear down a narrow mountain road with my Black Beauty (that is what I call the old girl, my Bullet) guiding me around tricky bends. I ride through villages and see the joy a simple puddle can bring on the faces of kids. They are almost stripped down to the bare necessities and take turns to dive in the puddle, laughter all around. I smile a smile and ride on...

Sleepy Villages which make one feel like one has time travelled

The wind streaks in through gaps in the helmet and caresses my ears, whispering songs and shrill noises and women's voices - all at the same time. The engine, feeling jealous, roars loudly, trying to drown out the wind. The only result is that the sounds mix beautifully, the loud thump-thump-thump of the old girl mingles with the whinging wind, sounding like a duet between two accomplished masters of their respective fields. Thump-Thump-Thump goes the engine, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh goes the wind. Thump. Whoosh. And, as if on cue, the engine deliberately misses a beat. But the highly versatile wind catches this trick and there is a momentary lull before the jugalbandi starts again. Thump - Whoosh... :-)

My heart smiles and chips in with a lub-dub of its own. The wind gets vociferous, puffs its cheeks and blows with a vengeance. Since the Bullet does not appear to budge from the jugalbandi, the water droplets on my visor seem to be the primary target of the wind's vociferousness. The wind howls and comes literally screaming at the pearl like beads of water like a ghost jumping on its unsuspecting quarry from a Peepul tree. The beads hold on for dear life, not wishing to fall off the sleek glass and the wind attacks with a ferocity, determined to sway the beads off their feet. I watch a struggle of epic proportions unfold before my eyes. And, the magnitude of the struggle makes me drum my fingers on the handle, as if I were Zakir Hussain playing a real fast composition...

In all this happy mélee, what I do not realize is that my original destination now lies miles away as I have taken one country road after another and have unwittingly got hopelessly lost in the Indian hinterland. The narrow & unmarked roads, the forests, the villages, the horizon from which stems the rainbow, the puddles whose sole purpose of existence is to soak me as I ride through them and then laugh at me by creating huge ripples...Oh, the list is endless. As I'm immersed in my thoughts, a shack appears out of nowhere and I stop by to have a chai and reminisce before heading back to my original destination!!!

I'm the bloke in the centre :-) And the others flanking me are my fellow Bulletier Pirates :-)