Woke up early, real early, around Sixish. That’s earlier than the sun shows his face to me. One of my standing principles has always been, never to wait for someone who will not be there. Usually saves me a lot of aggravation. I broke it. Always a first time, right?
With just a cuppa coffee rode out into a beautiful morning. October mornings in Mumbai are to die for. Especially, if you are riding the marine drive. With typical Indian timing, late as usual, the sun rose and smiled at me, a little wickedly I thought. Oh Mumbai, what poetry. Dawn on the waves, beautiful people with dogs walking the promenade. It was great. Then a corolla decided that it did not want to share space with a puny little bike anymore and coolly moved in to my lane. Wonderful. Eighty to twenty in three seconds. Heart pounding and finger pointing, I rode on.
Pretty soon I got to the place where I was headed. Turned out to be a place where I should not have headed. Got new directions and, stonewalled again. Finally made it to a place where someone was willing to help. God bless early rising Mumbaikars. Then, he turned a sad face towards me and gave me news, the bad kind.
Called a very hopeful person up and told him, that no go. He sighed and said all right. I then drove to the airport to collect a phone. A decrepit phone that has been with my company since the dawn of our office and plans to continue in that manner till it enters the record books or something. On this beautiful morning the traffic was so light, I made it quicker than my colleague who was coming down on the suburban local five stops away.
Then we turned back officewards. An empty stomach and three hours of riding was getting to me. So was the early Mumbai traffic. It was like the whole world wanted to use the western express highway to get to work. I then added the crowd in the suburban trains and was awed for a moment. There are actually so many hardy souls in Mumbai, who do brave inhuman conditions and travel to work daily to earn their livelihood. Had read about them in the morningers; but, first time in 25 years did I come bumper to bumper with them. Parked at the side, bowed my helmeted head in respect and then let rip.
In true Mumbaikar – Biker fashion, I zigged and zagged. Twisted and turned, bleeped my horn and cleared the log jam. It was just like dodging the meteor belt at the Star Wars sequels – prequels or whatever Lucas named them. And was I accelerating. A ton on the speedo, made it to the office in half an hour. Dropped my colleague off and thought now I’ll take a break. Head home have a nice breakfast, chill a little. Was not feeling too good, so thought I’ll work from home this morning.
Trundled out from the office lot. Thinking no hurries now, as I was traveling in the opposite direction. My wrist and back needed a break. Mumbai roads are not really made for long distance riding on two wheelers. Actually the only reason these roads are made, I think, is so that the ruling politico’s uncle can make about a million times what I make in a year and then get a percentage of the insane amounts these company service centers charge for setting the bike right after three months of riding.
On the home stretch now, the final kilometer before home. Slowing down for a signal when this huge grey Santro (all right a small grey Santro) decided to swerve on the road and see what happens to the small helmeted guy trundling homewards.
Well bikers and the road have a love – hate relationship. The road carries us along to our destination and saves us from wasting time on the trains. But, when it really comes to the nub, it really is not a very welcoming surface. I found gravity and momentum really are two forces that should be experienced only when you are upright and not horizontal and close to the surface. I rolled from the bike in an elegant two point somersault and found to my surprise that leather is really fragile material; especially while it’s still on your bones. Three abrasions and a bruise was what I got for an experiment in the functions of a steering wheel by a seemingly 16 year old female driver. Not to mention that a grand’s worth of cloth covering my lower limbs were letting atmosphere in where atmosphere had no business going. I sat up and observed my self. A small crowd had already gathered muttering, “Whose fault was it? Do you know whose fault was it? Is he bleeding? No, wow amazing. Such a long skid and no blood?”
I got up, gave her a silent stare and then took pity on her trembling lip and watering eyes. Someone handed me the decrepit phone back and I put in the bag. Stood up and stretched. Checked the bike for any damage; of which there were none and kicked it alive. It started at first kick and then came home. Reached home and found that while that helpful some one had handed me the old phone, my beautiful smart phone was missing. Someone picked up when I called and had the nerve to tell me to stop calling as he was already removing the SIM card off it. Thanks a lot for the same and all that.
Took my car to the police station and pleaded with the khaki protectors of the guilt-free and innocent to get me a certificate of loss. The constabulary of the city is so helpful that they usually point out the nearest police station except their own. As if they were a telephone exchange. “Sorry boss the lane in front of Stephen’s church belongs to the Gamdevi Police exchange. All crimes originating there should be reported to them. You see, we got an agreement with the Gamdevi Gangs, they do not operate here and so we do not harass them. You understand na?” But, I did not understand and demanded to see the senior guys and they grudgingly gave me the certificate.
Came back home and went to the doc to get meself fixed up. They got this nice little liquid they put on abrasions called tincture benzene or something. It smells evil and man does it sting. They dab little wisps of cotton soaked with this devil’s brew and seal the broken skin with it. Being stoic and manly and all that, I waited till I got in the car to hold my hands and whimper.
A couple of whimpers later, I took the painkiller the doc so thoughtfully provided and tried to sleep. Each time I would enter the REM phase, the decrepit phone would ring with some shweta trying to sell me a HSBC credit card. She somehow has gotten fixated on this number and still calls up and hears my voice and says “Oh! Sorry sir!” and hangs up.
So here I am. Poorer by a phone, a couple of sq. centimeters of leather and without sleep. The tincture benzene seal still hurts and my ankles swollen. I still hate this world.
