My first Ton.

I learnt to ride by accident. No, I did not find myself astride a bike after a night of drunken revelry or anything, my brother had a small sporting accident. Languishing in his bedroom, his dear ride was languishing in the garage. Making rueful headlights at my car which was (and still is) my pride and beauty. How it would almost misfire on hearing me start my car and ride away.

Finally, one day, my brother singularly attuned to his mechanical side, asked me to get on his bike and start it. He was a little worried about the neglect of a month on the bike's battery. With a bigger brother's stern instructions to just start the bike and idle it for a while, how could I not take it out for a spin.

I had learnt to ride when I was a small kid on my uncle's KB100. But that was about a decade ago, when I was just 15. But, as they say, it is not something that you easily forget. Pretty soon I got the hang of it and was pottering about inside my building compound and parking lot at a top speed on ten km/hr. The main issue I had was that, my brother's bike was a P180, 5 speed with one up and four down gear shift. A huge difference from a KB100 all down format if you ask me. So for now, I had to make do with two gears only, first and neutral. Neat. Parked the bike and looked at the engine closely. Hero Hondas have their gear shifts mounted on the tank where it is usually visible. Bajaj, on the other hand believe that a label should be over the implement. So, the pattern is over the gear shift at the bottom of the bike. Success. Proud of my sherlockian actions, the next day I took it out to try the other four gears too!

Kicked the engine over, engaged first and.. dumped the clutch. Hmm.. interesting results I must say. I never knew that the sky could look so different when viewed over two round pods housing the speedo and tacho.. esp. when the tacho was doing numbers like 9k and redlined. Grabbing the brakes was not really helping me, till I grabbed the clutch again. Immediately the tacho came down and so did the front wheel. Waited to get my breath back and looked up to find my mom mouthing a silent scream from the seventh floor balcony. I had done 10 m on just one wheel and that too without a helmet. Not something that endears you to moms who just have had one son down and out with a broken leg. Ma ki mamta does have definite limits apparently. Sheepishly, I killed the engine and wheeled the bike to the garage. Straight to the temple and praying for success at this endeavor, I decided then and there a couple of things. Never to underestimate your ride and never to ride without protective gear.

Day Three. A visit to the local training school. Got my learners license. Got home, took my brothers helmet. Took the bike out and slowly started it. With the magical piece of paper in my back pocket, my skills seemed to have improved. I finally discovered the realm of second and third gears.

Cut to next week, I was getting pretty good on this thing and was pretty decent at low speeds, so time to take the show on the road. One of the great things about my locality is that it has one great incline that is a dead end. After 10 p.m. traffic is almost non-existent. But, I was patient. I waited till all of 11.30 and then took it out. Like a nice little boy, looked left and right and then away I went. First, second, third, fourth and then... fifth!! I was in motorbiking nirvana. Then suddenly a stationary cab (they usually park here for the night) turned in on the road and I was out of tarmac too fast for my comfort. Hit both the brakes and got ready to fall. Dint happen though. The bike stopped in time and pretty much easily. Thank god for discs.

As you can now imagine, I was pretty much hooked on two wheels. Got around all the time, every where on it. My mom was also pretty happy with the state of affairs, because her grocery hating second son, now would always offer to shop for her.

Got my license endorsed for two wheelers. To celebrate, went to the bike shop and bought the best helmet I could see for myself. A full face AGV. Plain visor and lots of reflective tape at strategic places to help blind and drunk drivers identify bike rider at night. Slowly I was discovering the nuances of the bike. It's clunky gear shift, the weight of the clutch and the service part of it.

A puncture and three services later, the bike was in as good a condition as I could get it on my limited budget. A new rear tyre, a new battery (the old one just could not take the month of neglect and died. To be fair, it was more than three years old as it is.) and boy did it go.

It accelerates real good and touches 80km/hr (my normal riding speed now) pretty much on time. Actually, the bike feels so good nowadays, that I get by with the clutchless gear changes almost all the time.

Soon, I felt that the day had come to crack the cherry. Had been riding for half a year and still hadn't cracked the ton on my speedo yet. One fine sunday morning, got up at six and took it out. It was a brilliant day. Cool and breezy with the sun just rising. Took it to the western express highway and let it rip. Man what a symphony! While I do agree that Pulsars are not the best sounding bikes around, any engine revving its way to the redline sounds absolutely great. Especially if you are hanging on to the handle bars with an insane grin on your face.

Went right through the gears without the clutch, finding the sweet spot to upshift all the time. It was one of the few rides you get in your life time, where everything goes just right. Each time I would shift up, the bike would respond with a gentle surge and add another 30k to the speedo. By, the time I could think of looking at the speedo, the needle was struggling against the 110km/hr mark. Immediately let the throttle go and cruised down to a more normal 60. Man, was it bliss. I had started out from nepeansea road and was almost upto the domestic airport before I knew it.

Now am hooked. I use the bike to commute to work. Riding at a sedate speed of thirty most of the times. I am very careful of the gear shifts. Depressing the clutch fully before each shift. I watch my mileages too. Not revving the bike over much and keeping it in its power band with each shift. But, come night, when the city sleeps. I take to the road. Marine drive at night is a drive which should not be missed. Even at Sixty, with the cross winds and the bumps it's an interesting ride, but at ninety or so, it absolutely rocks.

It's been a great journey so far. I am currently looking at making my bike better and myself a safer rider. I am also looking for a second bike, a Jawa / Yezdi road king for a friend. So if any of you have any rides out there, please do let me know.

I loathe this world!

You got to give it to the all mighty creator. When he has it in for you, he really does not let go. No one carries a vendetta as well as him. Cities, states, countries even do not really matter. Just goes to show how all pervasive he really is.

While, I do not mind his all pervasiveness or his crossing city boundaries, his personal attention to my character building really needs a lot to desire. Here is what is happening in my world.

Kolhapur, a wonderful city, with old Maratha architecture and great hotels; at least from the outside. I am staying at this great old palace, called the Shalini Palace. A chateau indage hotel, it is a Shahu Maharaj’s palace converted. Huge rooms, huger balconies and seemingly all empty. I checked in and did not see a single guest occupying the hotel. The front desk told me that they have about 40% occupancy. In the early morning dawn, walked out in to the balcony and had a nice cup of insta-coffee. Life, seemed to have forgiven me. I was thinking, OK, time now for me to move on. Concentrate on business at hand.

I had come with a lot of hopes for this conference. Oh, sorry, did I forget to mention that I was here on business and not recuperating from my sad little biking incident? Well now you know. I am carrying about three hundred sets of brochures and CDs and what nots. I go real early to the hall, set up my stall. And guess how many people visit? A dozen. I collect about three cards and hand out 12 brochures.

At the end of this stifling day, interspersed with bad lunches and worse ice – cream (they murdered even plain vanilla ice cream), I pack my bags up. Easily about 50 kilos on each arm, I head out to the Auto Stand. What do I see? Nothing. Well, with 100 kilos hanging on your arms, nothing is not a welcome sight. I let them down and wait. Finally, conveyance. Bring it down to the hotel and have some sad dinner. My wrists all swollen. I had forgotten that common sense tells you not to overload tendons after eighty kilos have landed on them rather hard. Well, now I seem to have done it. Definitely need to get it X rayed back home.

Today. Going by the past trend, I carry only a small amount of brochures. Reach early again and sadly it’s the same story. Not too many ENTs interested in Cochlear Implants in Maharashtra it seems. Almost all of them come to the stall just to inquire about the cost and then leave. Do not even bother to read the latest literature on them. Seemingly even doctors believe that money comes before a life full of sound. Hmm, interesting.

A day spent vacuously staring at the stall opposite; chit chatting with the med-reps next stall. There is nothing remotely interesting on display. Even the competition seems to have given this conference a miss. Bad lunch, but surprisingly decent dessert this time round, Ras-Malai. A few calls and then it’s time to pack-up. Wanted to go to the courier company and send all the brochures back. Would have been mighty difficult to carry all of that back with my broken arm. Guess what happens? I lose my wallet at the conference. I do not notice till I get to the hotel. Rush back and it’s not there. I call in advance to ask a couple of acquaintances to look for it and keep it safe in case it’s there. It is not. What could I expect? It was not the cash that mattered, neither the train ticket back. It was all my plastic. These little one inch by two inches rectangular pieces of my financial liquidity were all in there. I do not have a single pai now. Thankfully, the hotel I paid in advance. All my ID was in there. I come back to the hotel, hoping against hope that I must have packed it in my bag, even though I clearly remember not doing anything of this sort. It’s not there.

With a heavy heart, I get to the reception and ask him to get me the number of the nearest Police station so I can get a letter to cancel all my cards and get my DL back.

Here is the conversation I have.

Voice of police: “Hello, Havaldar Jadhav speaking, rajawadi police station”

Me: “Hello, I am Vidyabhushan, I have lost my wallet at the Mentcon 07 at DY Patil hospital at Kadamwadi. Can I come down and get a letter to get my cards cancelled?”

VoP: “Speak to sir please”

Sir: “ Yes, what is it?”

Me: “Have lost my wallet, can you help me?”

Sir: “Where? At Kadamwadi? Please report to Sahapuri Police Station”

Me: “But, I don’t have any money, how do I get there?”

Sir: “Call them and ask!!!”

Me: “Sir, but please, apply some common sense, I am a stranger here, no cash and you expect me to go to a police station 5Km away? Sir, how?”

Sir: Bzz Bzz (that was not him, it was just that he hung up on me.

Went back to the reception. Asked him if there was a bar in the hotel. Yes there was. Went and had a stiff one. Feeling a little more in control, went to the reception told them the case and asked them for a loan of 500 rupees to get to the station and back.

Made it to the Shahapuri Police station. What I went through there, is not really publishable. Want to put it all behind me. The constabulary wanted me to go to a magistrate and get an affidavit before they would even enter this on their books, like the magistrate is God who will turn all statements true. I still do not understand how me making a statement in front of a magistrate would change anything? As if I would lie to the police, the guardians of the law and order and not to the magistrate, who to me is just a bureaucrat. By this time Mom had called all her connections in the higher ups of police and they were trying to call me on the phone. I spoke to the senior person there and he was understanding and got the constable to record my report and give me the letter.

I thanked uncle who was calling me and got back to the grumbling constable who took down my application in Marathi. Not one of my best written languages. I somehow got it done and got the letter, and then the ass has the gall to ask me for Baksheesh. I imploded. What part of “I HAVE LOST MY WALLET, MY CASH AND ALL CARDS?” do you ass not understand? I just stood and stared. He stared back, I sat down and started calling the uncle, I was noting down his badge name and asking him his number. I told him very casually, “Bloody fool, till now I’ve been decent. Now lets have it out, you and me.” Against the ACB. By then the senior came out and told me. “Sir, Let it be. I got it done na, please let it go.” He had heard uncle calling on the phone, so knew who I was speaking about.

So, I calmed down, in a very controlled voice, told him in chaste hindi (somehow I speak kind of chaste hindi when I am really stressed) “I have lost all that I carry. You still ask me for a bribe, what kind of a buffoon are you? Then I stormed out.

Back at the hotel. Tapping away at the laptop. Need another stiff one and then I’ll turn in. Dad has arranged for his friend to give me money to get back. Been to the railway station and gotten my ticketing done too. Got a few customers here who can help me out in case I need anything. But right now I only need God to forget about me for a while.

Dear lord forgive me for past sins and any rash words.
With you, never wanted to cross swords!
You are the best and will always be,
Now can you just let me be?

Vibhu.

I hate this world.

Not that the world has too many lovable qualities, still, till date it was never this hateful. With my usually amiable disposition such extreme statements are not usually my style, but I am beginning to get the hang of it.

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.