The train rolled to a stop on the sun-lit platform of Hazrat Nizamuddin on the morning of the 25th. Our bags packed, we immediately jumped off and walked to the end of the train to retrieve our bikes. Helpful railway men at the station helped us unload the bikes and we rolled them out through the rear entrance of the station.
We stepped out of the station, and Delhi hit us hard - the steaming Sun, the thin, chaotic streets, the clamor of sellers and buyers bargaining and arguing, the scents and smells mixing in the air, forming a heavy perfume dominated by strong flowery notes from the enormous garlands of fresh rose being weaved right in front of our eyes; the ittar (perfume) shops with their own magnificent aromas, hording the scents of an entire religion; the distant-but-still-nearby sound of prayers coming from the dargah (mosque) Nizamuddin; the uplifting, insistent tunes of mournful, soulful qawwali; the spiraling minarets and clock towers; the very Mughlai air - all of it hit us hard, like we had just woken up to a dream suspended in an era bygone. Our senses transported us suddenly to an emerald-green past, filled with the images of simple, white pearls and decadent peacock feathers.
But the heat brought us back. Outside the station, standing clueless under the hot Delhi sun, we realized our bikes needed fuel, as we had emptied the tanks before loading them on the train, as per Railway laws. Moham and Sumanth decided to get it from a gas station nearby while 3 and I stayed with the rest of the bikes and the bags. As soon as they rode beyond our line of sight in that narrow alley behind the railway station, 3 and I realized in the same instant that we had sent Moham and Sumanth out on a simple task, so of course, they were bound to screw it up.
As predicted, they managed to get into trouble in less than five minutes. Moham was stopped by a traffic cop as soon as he entered the main road because Sumanth, who was riding pillion, was not wearing a helmet. This was easily remedied, except the cop asked for Moham’s Driver’s License, which Moham then remembered was in his bag, and the bag was back with us. As the cop wasn’t stupid enough to let both of them return to get the license, Moham sent Sumanth back on foot to retrieve his license. Sumanth however had other plans, and promptly got lost in the labyrinth lanes of Delhi’s suburbia and couldn’t find his way back.
I received his frantic call in the sweltering heat, and managed to keep my patience in check as I tried to make him see that I was not the best person to get him out of the situation he was in because I had as much idea of the streets of Delhi as he did. The best he could do, I repeatedly told him, was to find his way back to the railway station and find the rear entrance of the station, at which point he would immediately spot us, as we were waiting in a tiny cobbler shop right near the gate.
This tangle was exacerbated because of the lack of mobility 3 and I faced, as we had our luggage and the remaining two bikes to look after, and they were already receiving covetous glances from the kids on the street. After trying for close to an hour to guide Sumanth back to the station, I left 3 behind with the bikes and the bags, and went to meet him in the railway station, leading him back fifteen tense minutes later to where 3 was waiting, fuming in the heat.
Around the same time, Moham escaped from the clutches of the cop and returned to base, with enough petrol to take the bikes to the nearest gas station. We loaded the luggage on to Sumanth’s Yamaha FZ in a haphazard fashion, because we couldn’t really think anymore in the stifling heat. We could only think of one way to cool our tempers and bodies down – riding. So we jumped on the bikes and rode out of the unbelievable mess of humanity that the gullies of Delhi are, and found ourselves soon on NH1. As soon as the wind fingered through our hair, smiles returned; the heat went away and the warmth returned. All impatience melted away in the excitement of simply being there; being where we had planned of being for ages and ages. We were headed to Ladakh!
We saw Indraprastha Park, Sanchi Stupa and the Red Fort. We stopped outside the grilled compound of the Red Fort and stared at the unending lawn of green grass that took the eye unimpeded towards the red façade of the ancient monument. Thousands and thousands of birds rested on the lawn. In spite of the signboards warning against photography, I stepped off the bike to take a couple of pictures on 3’s camera. As I arranged the camera settings for a third snap, 3 shouted and I jumped back on the bike; he had seen a policeman approaching, and it was best to ride away. We rode through countless flyovers on our way out of the city. We saw imported cars competing with donkey-carts and old, rusty tractors. We saw trucks overloaded with cotton and hay and cows and elephants (yes, elephants!) and brand new cars. We saw parks and rice-fields, old, colonial buildings, ancient mansions and modern towers, all bustling for the attention of the city and the city-dweller. And we saw the India Gate.
Somewhere along that highway, after getting through the snarling traffic of Delhi, we entered the state of Haryana. We stopped at a Coffee Day in Sonipat, and were greeted by a fellow from Karnataka who was ecstatic to hear Kannada being spoken. He had seen the number plates on our bikes starting with ‘KA’ and was simply happy at being allowed to speak in his mother tongue for a change.
Until we stopped in Sonipat, we hadn’t realized how much in need of a break we were. I removed my shades and the balaclava in the washroom of Coffee Day and looked into the mirror to find someone else staring back at me. Moham took one look at me and sniggered. The bridge of my nose, the only part of my face that was exposed, had turned black. At first, I thought it was just dust. But when I tried to wash it away, the color wouldn’t change. I was sunburnt, five hours into the road trip.
After a couple of cold, cold drinks, we packed up again and this time did a better job with our bags. Moham, who was riding alone, had enough space behind him on the bike to rest his rather large bag in the pillion seat. 3 and I didn’t have that luxury, as we were sharing the 220 cc Karizma. So we came up with a simple idea to protect our bags and stop them from falling off – we used bungee cords to secure them onto Sumanth’s FZ, as he was riding alone too. First, we opened those large, black, plastic trash bags we had bought and placed our bags into them. The trash bags come with threads that you can use to tie them up. We did that and placed our bags one on top of the other, and used three bungee cords to secure them in place on the back seat. They wouldn’t budge after that, and the trash bags protected the bags against rain and dust.
The National Highway is very well kept. In fact, this section of the NH1 is part of the twenty thousand kilometer long Asian Highway Network that runs unbroken from Tokyo to Turkey via Korea, China, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iran! It was a pleasure to ride on the dark, neat roads. We maintained an easy pace of eighty to hundred kilometers an hour, and quickly crossed Panipat, Karnal, Kurukshetra and Ambala. The stretch from Kurukshetra to Chandigarh is truly a concrete marvel. When on that section of the highway, you don’t even touch the earth of Ambala, as you are constantly on top of a massive flyover that stretches over the skyline and gives you a bird’s eye view of the entire city spread beneath on both sides.
When the flyovers descend, we return to the plains - the great plains of Hindustan, on which and for which a thousand armies battled a thousand times. Green stalks of freshly planted rice stood in the contrast of yellow heat, and the rectangular fields with standing water shone like elongated mirrors, reflecting the dull blue sky. In the gaps between towns and cities where civilization hadn’t made its mark the view of the land was immense and unimpeded and our eyes reached the horizon with ease. A dull haze hung low and continuous over the fields; and from time to time, flocks of birds would suddenly erupt and take flight and add color to the scene, in the way they do. Peacocks would jump out of fields and amaze us in a sudden rain of magnificent color, and then, as if sensing their job was done, disappear again into them.
A little way from Ambala, where the highway had become rural again, we stopped for a late lunch at a road-side Dhaba. This was to be our first taste of north-Indian fare and I was excited. The thought of enjoying the culinary delights of North India was for
us a major incentive of the Ladakh road trip. And we knew that once beyond Keylong, we would have to survive on dal-chaval (boiled rice and lentils) and instant noodles, so we were really keen on loading up on some Punjabi food.
Each stop is a pit stop - a chance to refresh the mind, body and spirit. When we stop after a long leg of riding, we beeline to the washroom and spend at least ten minutes washing the dirt of the journey away. It is an important ritual for bikers. The bikes also receive a lot of attention during a stop. We checked the bikes, checked the engines and the brakes, checked for signs of oil leaking, checked to see if the bungee cords were still holding the luggage in place, re-adjusted them a little, and finally walked in. We asked for parathas, which was the whole point of the trip, really – hot alu parathas in north India with lassi and thick, creamy yoghurt and pickle. And then they offered us Gobi parathas, and until then I wasn’t even aware of their existence, so we ordered some of those and then we sat back in our seats and watched the scenes of the highway unfold.
A small truck loaded with cotton crawled into our field of view. Pure, white lumps of cotton were stacked higher than the body of the truck, and the whole thing was leaning to the left at a dangerous angle. The highway here sloped upwards and the truck had a long and difficult time climbing it. When it reached the top of the curve, we could almost hear it groan in relief and descend.
The cold-frosted glasses of Lassi arrived; in long, stainless-steel boats the thick yoghurt arrived and the steaming parathas arrived; and it turned into a good meal. You don’t often remember the meals you’ve had. But I remember this one particularly because we stopped time in our effort to enjoy it. A cool, late-afternoon breeze wafted in from the highway, the sun was behind the dhaba and the light was already a little twilight-ish, we were thousands of kilometers away from home on the strength of our will – all this made for a great setting and a great appetite.
We reached Chandigarh around six thirty that evening. In the spreading darkness of summer dusk, we fell in love with the roads of that city. It had been a long, dry and dusty day in heat of the plains, and we had hoped Chandigarh would be a lot cooler and thankfully it was. We lost our way a bit once inside the city, but we weren’t complaining as we got to see a lot more of it that way. When we finally caught the highway again, it was at that time of dusk when the light plays tricks on you. We saw a thin, young boy on an old rickety Scooter becoming a victim of just such a trick when a Honda City misjudged the distance between itself and the Scooter and nudged him from behind. Just a little nudge, but the Scooter and the boy jerked and screeched forward and crashed and the boy’s helmeted head hit the road hard and in the impact he lost the Scooter. He skidded and bumped along a long stretch of the road, as Honda City desperately tried to avoid him. The car squealed and came to a halt in front of a city bus and the driver jumped out. By this time, the boy had stopped rolling and had also come to a stop. In the gathering dark, the traffic came to a standstill and the onlookers formed clumps of four or five discussing the accident and whose fault it was. The boy was shaken but unhurt and Honda City promptly loaded him up in his car and took him to the hospital. The crowd cleared and night fell.
That woke us all up. We were right behind Honda City, and it became suddenly clear to us as we faced each other silently that it could have been us instead of the Scooter. We stopped for a few minutes, while Moham and Sumanth lit up. This gave us time to become grounded again. I wondered what would have happened if it was one of our bikes instead of the Scooter. How our plans would have changed. Would we have stopped the trip and returned? Road trips have always evoked thoughts of the what-could-have-been. Perhaps this is because we are more in control of our decisions when we're traveling than in any other time and place. When we are in control, we are clear to think of permutations. Traveling also enables anything that can go wrong to go wrong. The final enigma of road trips comes from our secret craving to be in complete control in a situation of complete chaos. Only in moments like these are we informed of our self by ourselves.
Crossing the city slowly in the dark of night, we returned to the true highway – lined with fields and small streams and old, unused narrow gauge railroads, still within the flat plains of the subcontinent. It was late now, and we really wanted to rest. Almost near Kiratpur Sahib, we spotted a Dhaba and rolled our bikes off the highway and into its simple but ample front yard.
The owner, a short, round Punjabi man with a blue turban and a large, black beard came out to greet us, smiling a cherubic smile and chattering away in nasal Punjabi. His father, who had a larger, flowing beard of pure, cottony white, stared at us with owl-like eyes as we began to unpack. A few minutes of one, long, unblinking glare later, he lost interest in us and returned to his TV. Frankly, we were relieved because as we were unpacking, we were all consciously aware of his stare. 3 even tried to smile at him but couldn’t get a response back and it was beginning to get unnerving. I think the old man was just trying to have some fun with us, his smile hidden behind his bushy moustache that disappeared into the white mists of his beard.
After another heavy meal of deliciously hot alu parathas with loads of butter, we couldn’t move an inch. We still hadn't found a place to sleep yet, so a small conference was held and we decided to ask the owner if he had any cots to sleep on, the kind usually reserved for tired truck drivers. He replied in his sing-song Punjabi, and said he could provide us with four cots at fifty rupees per cot.
In the first drafts of the road trip, this idea of sleeping out in the highway in a Dhaba – like truck drivers do on long, tiring routes – had come up, so when our host allowed us this chance, we lapped it up excitedly. He even agreed to keep our cameras and valuables in the small cottage where he slept, for safety. So we unpacked for the night, our first night out with the elements. We tucked the bikes away into a neat corner, laid out the four cots to face the highway, using a fifth cot for all the bags, shoes and odds and ends. And as soon as were ready to go to sleep, sleep left us, and we sat down for a long and winding discussion, both of the important and the mundane – sinking into the beautiful luxury of an unhurried night. The highway too gradually became silent, and sounds of vehicles were replaced by the call of crickets. Our host retired for the night around one am, his father having gone to bed earlier after another hearty stare at us. We remained awake, gazing at the stars that twinkled down on us, each of us exhausted but still brimming with the driving adrenalin of the road that denied us sleep. It was hard to believe that it had only been twelve hours since we came to Delhi.
The ghosts of girlfriends, past and present, were invoked and we wondered sadly how it happens that you hurt a person the most when you are trying absolutely hard not to hurt them; how good intentions turn sour and go bad like milk on a hot day, how life and circumstances place us neatly in uncomfortable crossroads where the only way to do the right thing is by hurting the person you love.
People insist on giving names to relationships, instead of effort and patience and time. I like the freedom and the breathtaking freshness of relationships that don't demand a title, a nomenclature; as if we are naming newly discovered species of bacteria. Why must two people in love be defined by a spectrum of titles? The problem with naming relationships is that as soon as you give it a name, you've to assume a role. Girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, wife, partner. What are two men who are in love with each other called? Two women? Society sits down and comes up with new names. Gay. Lesbian. It doesn't make a difference to them that all relationships, all the social structures of the world are being woven only with love. When this is the case, can it not be possible for two people to be introduced only as people who are in love? 'Meet Jack and Jill. They moved here yesterday, and they are in love.' I think it is possible, and I think it's the way of the future. I think it is possible for two people to meet, to feel a mutual affection, to open up to each other in the dark like flowers that bloom in the night, to whisper to each other all the truths that they have slowly gathered from t
he grasslands of the world, and by sharing these secrets, to fall in love. A relationship without name and structure needs only love, a love peppered with friendship and joy. If two people can make each other laugh and cry and can still see each other eye to eye, soaked in the truth that their love demands, then I don't think time has any power over them. If circumstances separate them, they know that what has come between them is merely space. Such a relationship, nameless and hence timeless, is an enduring kinship of two affectionate souls. Love such as this reaches out across all distances of space and time. It has no boundary because it has no structure, and no name. And so I don't know why people insist on giving names to relationships, instead of love and truth and laughter. I would like nothing better than to sit down with a girl under the shade of a tree on the banks of a river and spend an afternoon, or a lifetime, whichever is more pleasant, talking about why the stars are so far away or, what is it that two ants discuss when they touch their tiny heads to each other or, what is it that exists when nothing exists, and kissing. Oh yes, lots of kissing. I don't know of any other way to become timeless than to love immortally.
Conversation started conversations, aided by the silent road. It felt like we had stolen a tiny bit of the universe and had run away with it - a moment of timelessness and eternity we could call our own. Nothing stopped us from anything, and I slowly became aware of the immense possibility each second held. This realization – this understanding that we could stretch a second to infinity, to its maximum potential, that each second holds within it unlimited, unimagined possibilities – changed me. I’ve never been the same since.
One by one we fell asleep under the star-strewn sky.