A Motorcycle in Mahim

Let’s take a drive. It’s been a long day at work, and it’s time to head home from Mahindra Towers in Worli, back to Bandra. Like always, I’m taking my 2004 Honda Hero Splendor Plus motorcycle, and it’s quite the adventure.

First gear doesn’t last long on my bike. The revs climb up quickly, so that I top it out within a few seconds of taking off from an intersection. It’s then time to switch into second. I pull the throttle back until the last moment, so that I can use the high range to maximize my take-off speed, then drop it out, switch into second, and pick the acceleration up at a good cycle speed.

So, I’m at the top of first.

With my right hand, I let the throttle forward. Quickly enough to take the pressure off of the engine, but not so quick as to sink it down. A quick release of the throttle makes it all too jumpy. With my left hand, I pull in the clutch. This disengages the throttle from the gearbox, so I can select second. It’s also a wet clutch, so I can ride it unlike in a car. With the throttle off, and the clutch pulled in, I can switch. I use my left foot for that. Kind of like kicking a horse with the back of your boot, I push my heel down on the gearbox mechanism. The bike makes a perfect clunk sound, as the gear is selected. I feel the clunk with my foot, and it feels perfect. Now the process reverses itself. I slowly let the clutch out with my left hand, while I pull back on the throttle. As the clutch gets engaged again, the throttle should be revving the engine enough to that it all fits together perfectly. If the clutch is released too quickly, the motor will die. If I let it out too slowly, the revs get too high, and it gets jumpy again. It also sounds bad, and I lose speed so that when I finally enter second, I’m in the low range, and it takes time to get back up to speed. But, this time is perfect.

It all happens by the time you finish this sentence. My hands and feet work perfectly in synchrony. I let the engine moan louder and louder, until the rise in pitch stops. When it whines at a constant rate, I go up to the next gear, and the pitch drops. Then it slowly climbs back up. Deep mmmmm transforming into a high mmmmm. Pause. Then, another deep mmmmm climbing. I can make it sing, deep to high, deep to high, until we’re both roaring at top speed on top gear.

This is, of course, the ideal way to take off from an intersection. However, the ideal is rarely reached in India. Most of the time, there is another bike six inches in front of you, six inches behind you, and two to your sides, about six inches away. Without the absolute freedom to take off like you want, you’re regulated to the whims of your fellow bikers.

Green light

Okay, let’s go. About 20 bikes suddenly roar into motion, all taking off next to each other. I do as well, just behind a Bajaj Platina. My eyes are fixed on his taillight, ultimately aware of his speed. If he speeds up, so do I. I don’t want some other idiot to squeeze in between us. If he slows down, he’ll probably slam on his brakes. That’s how people do it here. So I have to be ready for a skidding stop at all times.

I’m barely paying attention to the motorcycles beside me. Hopefully they won’t lean into me. I hope we have that mutual understanding that I won’t steer into them if they don’t steer into me. As I’m fixed on the bike in front of me, I notice the bike to my right is backing off, slowing down. He’s wearing a pink shirt and shiny black slacks, and his black, crooked helmet is missing a visor.

What am I doing? Focus on the road, Michael.

He backs behind me, and he falls into the category of all vehicles behind me: they can kiss my tailpipe. The chaos in front of me is as much as I can handle. If you’re behind me, you can adapt to my speed and direction. Honk all you want.

Once he’s behind me, I veer off to the right, and pass the Bajaj. I get honked at by the crooked black helmet, which I expected. I also get honked at by the Bajaj guy. I don’t get that at all, but I keep going. There’s a little open ahead of me, and I prefer that to tailing someone. When you’re tailing someone, you can’t see the road in front of you. In Bombay, that’s very dangerous. There are holes in the road that are sometimes half a foot deep. Some potholes have been “fixed”, but are actually inverted potholes with a pile of asphalt on the road. The guy in front of you may see it coming, and veer away, but you’re left with two feet left, no room to turn, and you hit it hard. It can be very, very bad news. It’s important to be riding where you can see the road in front of you.

I get to fourth gear, with some open road, and some of the stress goes down. I have some room to avoid potholes and manhole covers. But unfortunately, the road is only half the danger on the ride back home.

The Red Buses Driven by Satan

These old iron monsters are huge boxes of death. Packed with about 300 people, with bars instead of windows, and no brake lights or turn signals, the Best Bus of Bombay is the Moby Dick of the roads. I ride up behind one, and come to the choice: pass to the left or right? For a moment, I think of Robert Frost, and two roads diverged in a yellow wood. But then I laugh, because that’s way too beautiful for this situation. If I go to the left, we may drive up on a bus stop, and the bus could squeeze me in between it and the curb. It would involve a quick stop, and I would run into a crowd of people waiting for the bus. Then I’d have to wait for the bus to take off again, and face the same choice. No, left is only for a last resort, with my back up against the wall.

The better choice is right, but that’s dangerous too. It involves going into the fast lane, where anxious yuppies are flooring their Golfs, Jettas, and Skodas. They honk, but they also don’t really care about you. They’ll probably bump you, or at least make things very dangerous. You have to pick your speed way up, and veer right, into the river of speed and frustration. With one eye closed, I make it into the slip stream of a taxi.

Then the goddamn bus turns into the stream. It turns right before diving back left!

What the hell?! I scream. But I’m screaming into my helmet, which hurts my ears. More frustration. I finally pass the Red Bus driven by Satan, relieved at the pure evil I’ve left in my wake.

Then, I come up on another.

Shit.

The Rickshaws, a.k.a. the Mosquitoes of the Road

These little two-stroke bastards are not very big, but somehow they manage to block out all vision of the upcoming road, and they make themselves three lanes wide, because of their constant change of direction. They are also so loud that you can’t hear your own engine. With a bike that doesn’t have a rev indicator, that makes gear changing decisions very difficult. The good news is that ricks aren’t allowed in South Bombay. The beginning of my road home is just cars, bikes, and the Satan buses. However, once I cross Mahim creek (and the putrid smell of human effluence rising from the black water), these little mosquitoes come out en masse. They have no brake lights, and no turn signals, and the black canopy roof is tall enough to make seeing over or around the vehicle impossible.

Remember, riding behind somebody is dangerous, and ricks are the most manipulative at this. I ride up behind one, but it’s going quick enough to make passing useless: I shouldn’t get up to those kinds of speeds in the ‘burbs. So I’m riding in the wake. Suddenly, it veers hard right. By the time I can formulate a “What are you doing?” thought, I see a pile of concrete dried appear between his back tires. I lean to the left, and brake hard, I get a little off-balance for the moment, but I stick my right leg a little out, lean back to the right, and wiggle back to an upright position.

More anger builds up, then transforms to passive aggressivism. I speed back up to the rickshaw, and despite the danger, speed around him. I honk so he knows I’m coming to his right. He pulls off to the left a little. Once I’m around him, I pull in front of him, and slow down while going to the left and right back and forth. He can’t whip around me, so he slows down too.

“Yeah, how you like that?” I ask into my helmet.

I almost feel gratified, but there are seven more ricks in front of me, all waiting to lure me into potholes and speed bumps. These bloodsucking, three-wheeled, two-stroke mosquitoes are annoying to say the least, and I dearly wish I could just shoo them all off.

The Maverick Pedestrians

People on the side of the road normally stick to the far left or right of the road, and stay out of traffic. However, every once in a while, you’ll run into a maverick: a coolly strutting pedestrian clearly walking in the way of traffic. Because the left hand side of the road is motorcycle territory, this means you’re constantly on the look out for these daredevils. I pass another motorcycle, and see one coming up.

He’s dressed in a striped yellow and brown shirt, with a collar so wide it only fits in the 1970s. His slacks are black and shiny, and he’s walking with a swag in his gait, head held high. I honk to let him know I’m coming up.

He doesn’t scoot to the side.

I honk again, this time a little longer. Still, no movement. I’m forced to slow down, while other motorcycles pass me to my right. At this point, I’m too slow to just go around him. Another bike will hit me. I have to slow down to a stop behind this guy, and I honk loudly. After a few seconds, he gives a look over his shoulder, and steps slightly to the side. As I brush past him, he hits my mirror. I don’t feel bad, I just feel frustrated that my mirror is crooked now. I look back to him with an evil eye, and he just keeps looking ahead, no concern.

He’s crazy, I think. Back in first gear, I have to do the climb back to fourth on the far side of the road, so I can jump back into traffic.

After about 45 minutes, I make it back home. I slide into my parking spot in the garage under the apartment building, switch the neutral, and silence the engine. I dismount, and take off my helmet. My hair is sweaty, and the cool air feels good with the slight breeze. I leave my red motorcycle until the next morning, where we’ll roar through the chaotic streets again.

Roads

This is a tale of two roads, a gnarled tree, and the edge.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I listen to my heartbeat. If you lie face up, and keep your head very still, you can hear your ears twitch slightly as your pulse sends buckets of blood through your body. They move almost without notice, but if you concentrate, you can hear them drag against the pillow. When this happens, it sounds like walking through leaves. In fact, before I identified the anatomical reason for this pulsing sound, I thought I was dreaming the sound, and let my imagination loose.

I always think of the same moment when I hear my ears twitch. I imagine the old dirt road leading to our family farm. It’s about half a country mile long, and it’s a tunnel of trees, light, dust, and underbrush. In summer, this tunnel turns green and gold, and in winter it’s a somber brown and grey. But a tunnel it remains throughout the year, and leads you lovingly to the waiting 80 acres of beautiful fields, and roaming cows. You’re almost home, it whispers. When my ears twitch at night, I hear my feet crunching the leaves of the road during fall. It’s a red and orange tunnel, with white gravel creeping behind the crispy ground. Step by step, my ears lead me home. But before I get there, I always fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.

However, my dear reader, times change. Today, at the end of that dirt road, the state of Arkansas owns most of that land, and some by John Roberts, a dairy farmer. John Roberts, a good man, has unfortunately replaced our old Simmental cows with Holsteins. No more beautiful red and golden haired beauties roam. It’s just black and white, and a little harsher.

Today, I live on 21^st Road in Bandra West in India. Don’t bother looking for it though, because there’s no road sign, and absolutely no indication that it even exists. Also, 16^th Road is an acceptable address for me, even though it’s actually one road over. I think.

21^st Road is a brick road, but it’s not yellow. The bricks are the same brown and grey color of an Arkansas winter. They are abnormal shapes, and fit together almost magically. However, many of them are loose, and jiggle as you walk over them. The road itself is a respectable two-lane road, but after cars decide to park on both sides, and traffic refuses to admit defeat, it becomes a four lane thoroughfare. The Skodas, VWs, BMWs, and Mercs might fool you into thinking this is some cosmopolitan neighborhood. But then the roaming cows and haphazard bamboo scaffolding on the new building remind you that, no, this is India.  

There are trees on my road, and pretty big ones too. The sun has trouble getting to the bricks below. The leaves spread out above, and provide a canopy that sometimes mimics my Arkansas tunnel. The trunks are old and big, and they come down to the bricks, and dive in without a splash. In most urban areas, you’ll find a grate, or some area around the tree to allow it to breath and drink. Here, the bricks choke the trunk, and some grout has even found its way up onto the bark. The roots are somewhere below, magically drinking some hidden source.

Stray dogs and cows like my road. The dogs patrol the street, acting as the unofficial guardians. They are obviously Indian guards, because they also sleep on the job quite a bit. There’s a black and white terrier next door, and she just gave birth to her first litter. They grow up so fast. The cows don’t care about the dogs in the least, and they go wherever the hell they want to. Sidewalks, in front of cars, in the middle of the road. They lumber and sleep, and give you a sideways look that says, I’m the boss here.

Still, this nonexistent chaotically peaceful road is home for now.

It’s a far cry from my dirt road. Peaceful silence has been replaced by honking and yelling. A wind rushing through the trees isn’t fresh anymore; it smells like rotting fish. And the freedom to open up 8 cylinders of my Chevy Silverado, roaring through humid air and watching the dust leap up behind me has been replaced by dip and diving around BMWs, with newly affluent jackasses who think honking is necessary to announce your arrival.

If reconciling the difference between my two worlds wasn’t difficult enough, another wrench has been thrown into the machine. My dirt road still leads to the farm, but it’s been mostly sold off. Now, we own a new property out in Newton County. From Prairie Grove, that means a two-hour drive across a few rivers, around a lot of hills, and through a couple little towns removed from time. Finally though, on top of a lonely hill, there is a house called Star’s Edge.

It was just after Christmas, and I had left 21^st road for want of my Arkansas tunnel. Instead of walking through my dreams again, we went to explore some of the new 220 acres. My family was all there, and we were tromping through the woods like monsters where the wild things are. Even though it was winter, leaves still were piled up everywhere, and crunched with a more vigorous sound. We were yelling and laughing, letting up a rowdy roar to the heavens. The Black family owns these woods, and our dreams for the future live here.

We eventually walked up to a gnarled tree, perched on the edge of a tall bluff. It was only about 9 feet tall, but its curved and contorted body prove that wisdom and wind from the valley have shaped it into a small but proud oak. Most of the leaves had fallen off, and even though it was the dead of winter, buds were beginning to form anticipating the coming spring. Its roots grasped the edge of the cliff like old fingers, wrinkled and stiff. Down about 100 feet below, the forest continued indefinitely across a valley.

It was a curious moment. A lonely tree perched between two worlds, completely exposed to the elements. My family in-between the old farm and these new woods. Me in-between Arkansas and India. Times are changing, and all at once a new age heralded itself in. Here we all were, on the edge, ready to jump into the future and our new, constantly changing identities.

Air India Flight 144 brought me back to Bombay. Back to my city, and back to my lost road in the chaotic land. And seamlessly, my feet adapted from the crunching of leaves, to the grinding of sandy bricks.

Last night, I put my head down on my pillow. I waited till my warm ears twitched with my restless heart. A curious thing happened. I heard my feet begin to walk, but the image that came to my head was a whirlwind of confused images. One step would be in the tunnel. The next would be in the woods of Newton County, the next would be on 21^st road. A gust of fresh farm air would circle around me, then rotten fish would swim about. Leaves, bricks, sunlight, shade, Jersey, Simmental, and Holstein cows.

They say home is where the heart is, but I disagree. When you go to sleep tonight, listen to your ears and heart.

Wherever they take you is home.