We live in a society where words like ‘intellectual,’ ‘scientist’ and ‘traveller’ are more likely to be used as cuss words than as praise. A child disassembling an emergency flashlight to have a look at its insides will often be told, “Zyada ‘scientisty’ mat dikhao.” A person who does not take things lying down and raises questions when in doubt, will eventually be silenced by the remark, “Oh, you intellectual types!”
For most Indian families, the ‘normal’ and ‘respectable’ way of traveling is achieved with a large picnic basket, several varieties of pickle, an extra pillow, an ailing grandmother and a couple of irritable kids. A guy in flip-flops, a convenient rucksack and a stubble will either get suspicious stares or condescending smiles.
In short, we live in a society that looks down upon risk-taking, discourages curiosity, and is wary of freedom. No wonder bikers and their ways are so misunderstood.
I remember getting my first bike during college, a cruiser with a tiny engine yet lots of chrome. It was made for those who wanted a comfortable, flashy ride without inflated petrol bills.
Now, I had grown up watching American biker films and thought I knew how a biker was ‘supposed to look’- leather jackets, torn jeans, broad goggles, a rather snide countenance and a pretty woman on the pillion seat. So I carefully worked on this look. I convinced an elder cousin to part with his aviators telling him they didn’t suit him at all. I went to Kanpur and procured a couple of leather jackets. The open-face helmet and bandana were couriered in from Delhi (The latter was to be worn only in areas where police checking was unlikely).
I was never to be caught on the bike without the complete look. In fact, when I once refused to ride to a certain place because I couldn’t find my shades, some wise guy quipped sarcastically, “Now we understand! Your bike runs on goggles, not petrol!”
I ignored his remark, but then, there were other things that were hard to ignore. Being a ‘responsible’ member of the family, I was expected to partake in the household chores. So, I would be all ready to cruise in my leather jacket et al when someone would hop on to the pillion seat with an empty gas cylinder that had to be refilled. Disconcerting.
Protest was not an option. “What? Getting vegetables for your own house is shameful for you, eh?” I would be asked when I’d point out the ridiculousness of lady’s fingers dangling from the handlebars of a newly polished lowrider.
Moreover, the pillion rider I had hoped for was the kind who would make the passersby wonder, “How is it that such gorgeous women fall for weird vagabonds?” What I got in my share, however, were fat aunties whom I was frequently asked to transport from one point to another. They would make the suspension make frightening sounds every time we hit a speed breaker and then feign amazement, “Oh dear, what is it with your bike?” I must admit that there was an instance or two when I intentionally gave them such a harrowing ride that I was sure they’d never ask for me again. But it didn’t stop. The world is full of fat aunties and one replaced another.
However, even though Freud would predict otherwise, my ‘traumatic early experiences’ did not put me off biking. In fact, I still don’t find wearing thick jackets in 40°C too uncomfortable. But with time, I have learnt to wear them for their protective potential and not just to complete ‘the look’. And my only advice to future riders is this- whether the world around you understands you or not is irrelevant. What is important, is that like me, you don’t get biking wrong. Love it for what it is, what it ought to be, and what it can be, and not just for what it appears to be.
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