The strange case of a stalled bike

Despite the fact that cars offer greater scope and space for perceived debauchery, the conservative in India are, strangely, more uncomfortable with couples on bikes than those in cars. In a country where most parents choose to live under the belief that their kids are asexual beings until married, a bike-borne couple is perhaps seen as being ‘open’ about their relationship, and thus ‘a danger to social values.’ Even Bollywood, the great mirror of popular culture, has often employed the humble motorcycle as a metaphor for breaking free. Several on-screen couples eloped on the two-wheeled wonder, until the Karan Johars of B-town made fancy cars and business tycoonism the norm. I had already finished my first cup of coffee at a swanky coffee shop when she entered. Svelte and timid, she struggled a bit pushing in the glass door, and slid along with it as it resumed position. I pretended I was looking at the dudes puffing hookah smoke in each other’s faces, but soon diverted attention to my empty coffee cup when that seemed too intrusive. Striking a conversation was difficult, partly because she had all the conventional good looks, and I stupidly felt that looking at her may amount to ogling. Also, I couldn’t help wondering why the café had ‘munni badnaam hui’ visuals running on the TV screen even as John Mayer was simultaneously being played on the speakers. Moreover, strange creatures kept walking in, fuelling an urge for self-righteous criticism, and limiting my jokes to- “Isn’t that weird guy wearing his elder brother’s t-shirt and younger brother’s pants, your best friend?” I never had a great sense of humour, and these were particularly bad, but she politely smiled. But I didn’t stop at that. I went on to discuss the ridiculousness of this guy who had attained prominence in the city, but who, according to me, was naïve and a sham. This didn’t even elicit a smile, and she pretended to be engrossed in the fineness of the sugar served (I later came to know she was closely related to the person.) I looked out at the sky, and realised that the weather had turned overcast. “How about a ride on my bike?” I unthinkingly asked, instantly regretting it, for I was certain of a refusal. “Lets go,” she said to my amazement, which I tried to hide by slipping on my helmet. We blitzkrieged through traffic on the open road as she impressively managed to the stay on my bullet that has no backrest for the pillion. Then, the unthinkable happened. The bike purred, the throttle stopped responding, and the engine died. It was obvious that petrol, the golden liquid that the cool should never be worried about, was over. So wary was I of the picture of a guy struggling with his defunct ride as the pretty girl with him makes disgusted faces, that I didn’t try to kickstart the bike again. “Er, I hope you’re impressed,” I said sheepishly. “There’s a petrol pump only a short walk away. Here, let me carry your helmet,” she said, laughing. Now, the bullet is a great bike to ride, but rather terrible if you have to drag it. Incidentally, the clouds too cleared and the sun shined with all its ruthless intensity. I was panting and drenched in sweat by the time we reached the pump. I looked at her, and she was still smiling, looking more beautiful than she ever had. The appearances and pretences had vanished, but there was no embarrassment, no condescension in its place. Instead, the incident broke the ice that could not have melted in the air-conditioned confines of the café. After refueling the bike, we continued the ride, finding newer routes in the city and topics to talk about. The next day, as I emptied the petrol tank to do a mileage check, I realised that the petrol hadn’t got over the previous day. The bike had stalled for no particular reason, the way it never had in all the years I’d owned it.

‘But you’re in the press!’

Having stayed and travelled through several cities in the country, I can say with confidence that there is indeed no city like Lucknow. From ‘hobbies’ that range from incessantly chewing pan masala to collecting antique cars, the Lucknowite isn’t known for holding himself back when the heart desires something. It is a land of connoisseurs where everyone thinks they know where you can get ‘the best’ biryani, and even those who feel queasy travelling in anything other than a cycle rickshaw have something to say on the Paris fashion week. When it comes to traffic, the city could well be an anarchist’s paradise. There are only two or three functional traffic lights in the entire city, and these too require the presence of cops to ensure that they’re followed. However, nothing less than a cop with superhuman alertness would do, as commuters invariably mistake the turned back of a cop for a green signal. But perhaps the most interesting is the game of hide and seek played between bikers without helmet and traffic policemen aka ‘maamus.’ Not wearing a helmet, for most people, is strangely a matter of dignity. “For God’s sake, you’re in the press!” I have been lambasted by many well-wishers when I picked up my helmet before a ride. Those who do not have ‘press,’ ‘high court,’ ‘vidhayak’ or ‘social worker’ written on their number plates resentfully go and buy a ‘formality’ helmet, a cheap one that offers no protection, to appease the cops. The more enterprising, and the ‘purana chawal,’ however, know all the streets and bylanes that can be taken to avoid police checking. Not ones to be outsmarted, however, the cops now hide behind parked cars in the unlikeliest of places, jump in front of the unsuspecting biker at the most crucial second, and pull out the keys from the bike before the poor guy realises what hit him. What follows is what makes Lucknow so different. In a city where you can get a delicious and filling kebab roll for 10 bucks, corruption is more humorous than frustrating. So, a monetary bribe is not the only thing that can get you off the hook, unlike in a harsh and demanding city like Delhi. The hunter and the hunted here could just discuss the weather over a pack of ‘Shyam Bahaar,’ before exchanging pleasantries and going their way. Or well, (believe me because I have witnessed this) the biker could just act like he’s come from some obscure village near Gonda, and has no clue that a helmet is compulsory or that there is a thing like vehicle insurance. The key here is looking especially blank and helpless. A friend was recently stopped by a traffic cop for not wearing a helmet. The insurance too had expired. The cop mentioned a cumulative challan amount which ran into several hundred rupees. “But how do you expect an outstation student like me, staying in a hostel, to pay so much?” complained my friend. “That’s not my problem,” said the cop, denying any ‘chai-pani’ with the dialogue- “I can either love Gandhi on the note, or his ideals. I have chosen the latter. ” “Okay then,” said my friend with a pitiable face, “I shall give pay the fine with my mess fee.” The cop’s countenance suddenly changed. He slowly inserted the key back in the bike. “Ah, get lost,” he said, “wasting your parents’ hard-earned money like that, you!” My friend rode straight to a helmet shop and bought a helmet with the money he’d saved that day. He has not been seen on the bike without a helmet ever since. Like I said, Lucknow is different.

OLD IS SOLD

Some days ago, I became the proud owner of a 250cc Jawa. The motorcycle, a 1969 model, had been lying for years with the city’s only mechanic for the make. The Czech makers of the bike shut their Mysore-based Indian unit more than a decade ago, and scarcity of spares and poor mileage of the bike meant that it soon had few takers. I first laid my eyes on a Jawa in my maternal grandparents’ house, where it rested for years after an uncle who owned it got into a major accident. I carefully studied the bike as a boy whenever I visited the house during school vacations, until one visit when I came to know that it was finally sold to a scrap dealer ‘to free the house of junk.’  Now, the little story behind me finally being able to ride and own a Jawa is somewhat interesting. On noticing the bike a couple of days ago, I had straightaway asked the mechanic, a rugged man in his fifties, if it was for sale. He looked at me from head to toe, gave me a strange, scornful smile, and uttered a flat, ringing “No.”  “You know, I have a thing for bikes, and am willing to pay,” I said. “I too have a thing for bikes, and am not willing to sell,” he replied sternly.  My mind suddenly flashbacked into a vintage rally I was covering a few months ago. I had gone there hoping to meet some really chilled out people. However, I only came across haughty feudal characters for whom owning a classic machine was more of a status symbol than the simple joy of riding. There were also the neo-rich who wanted to be seen as connoisseurs, had bought the machines at throwaway prices from people in distress, and pumped a lot of money into the bikes to make them gleam. The mechanic, I felt, was suspicious of me belonging to either of the two categories. He seemed to have grown fond of the bike, and I felt somewhat cheap for trying to buy this fondness. I returned.  The next day, I was passing by the workshop and couldn’t help stopping by. I asked the mechanic if I could at least ride the Jawa once. Surprisingly, he agreed, and seeing that I was nervous about the bike’s distinct traits, carefully explained how it is different from other bikes. We stole petrol from a customer’s bike and somehow managed to get it started. He kept a seat on the chassis and I gently took off.  I had never experienced anything like it. While the bike’s appearance, persistent clanking and smoke-belching attracted smiles, the torquey engine and exhaust sound were absolutely soul stirring. The ‘test ride’ turned into a 25-km pleasure trip in the rain, and when I returned to the workshop, drenched and with a mad smile on my face, I found the mechanic smiling back at me. This time, however, it was not a condescending smile, but the smile of a master whose pupil has discovered the joy of knowledge.  “How was it”, he asked me, already aware of the answer. “Awesome,” is all I could mutter in that cathartic state. “You can have it,” he said, “Just take good care of her.” 

The dilemma of sharing

Few things make my heart cringe the way it does when someone asks for keys to my bike. I have always found this response unreasonable and undignified, and have silently battled with myself to turn less possessive towards what in popular perception is only a machine. But I haven’t succeeded yet. I still don’t know how to stop my face from acquiring the expression which a boss’ face does when asked for leave. My brain involuntarily goes into turbo mode, looking for the best excuses to deter the asker. They range from the usual “no petrol” and “I must go, attend to an emergency” bailouts, to a lot more creative stories. In one instance, I told a guy whom I believed to be superstitious that the alignment of the planets was then inauspicious for riding two-wheelers. He just gave me a disgusted look and walked away. I think past experiences added to this discomfort towards lending my highly temperamental bike to others. Whenever, left with no choice, I have handed over my bullet to someone, the next 10 minutes have always comprised agonisingly watching the person try to kickstart it. With most guys, this becomes an ego issue, and the kicks become progressively desperate and violent. Each kick is directly delivered to my heart, and the incident invariably makes me avoid the person in future. Moreover, I have never had an accident on my bike but three others have, and all three returned with a sheepish grin and a mangled machine. Then, all three offered me money for the repairs. I have long lost touch with all three. Recently, I also realised that I am not the only one troubled by this situation. In fact, somebody I know goes to the extent of straightaway offering taxi fare to anyone who wants to borrow his motorcycle. Another fellow was asked by one of his closest friends for his bike apparently because he wanted to commit suicide by going off a bridge. This guy’s natural response was, “Why my bike?” He never bothered to counsel his pal against the step or to find out about his miseries. What is most annoying is people asking for your bike just to show off, particularly when your steed isn’t even a Harley or a Ducati. I have found people taking my bike and standing outside girls’ houses just to appear as someone who affords a different bike everyday. This problem of ‘borrowed well-being’ is particularly rampant in my hometown, Lucknow, where everyone wants to be called a Nawaab, dresses up like ‘Hum saath saath hain’ characters during weddings, and where being laidback is a virtue. But like I said, I am embarrassed of damaging relationships over my bike. It is, despite all the value I attach to it, a work of man, and no machine can ever match the human touch or feeling. I am working on a more composed countenance and greater tolerance.

Wheels of change

A door-to-door survey conducted in the early 1990’s in Tamil Nadu’s Pudukkottai district revealed that of the 2.9 lakh illiterates in the region, more than 75% were women. A primarily agrarian society, Pudukkotai depended on the sun-parched barren land for sustenance, which, coupled with poor irrigation systems and below-national-average literacy rates, had its families caught into an interminable cycle of poverty. A local NGO, later backed by the government, then decided to mobilise support for a large-scale literacy project for the underserved locality. As part of the programme, close to 30,000 women volunteers were trained as tutors. When pessimism about the project not moving ‘fast enough’ arose, it was decided that the tutors and their pupils be taught to ride bicycles. To gently introduce the then revolutionary idea, and to help women overcome their apprehension, a number of motivating cycle songs were sung in the rural communities. One of them went like this- “learn to ride the cycle sister, set in motion the wheel of life, sister.” Soon, in Pudukkottai’s dusty bylanes, women riding bicycles with their husbands on the carrier was a common sight. The classes, held out in the open in the village streets, were a huge success. By 1998, the district reported 100% literacy, increased independence of women, higher incomes, reduction in cases of domestic violence, and a clear improvement in lifestyle. Mobility is essential to empowerment, and India’s so-called metropolitan cities could take a lesson or two from the Pudukkottai experiment. A patriarchal value system prevalent in the self-proclaimed ‘modern’ cities is still highly resistant towards the idea of women riding two wheelers, a convenient and relatively affordable means of commuting. Somehow, riding a bike is made out to be a moral issue, and this method is used to discourage girls who are raised to believe that they are the bearers of the family’s ‘honour.’ The more liberal families, those who brag about watching Discovery channel instead of daily soaps, would still only consider small, pink, ‘girly’ scooters. This thinking isn’t really a problem when the basic reason behind the choice is the girl’s small frame and hence a physical inability to handle bigger machines. But some retrospection is needed when it emanates from the line of thought that limits ‘proper’ places for women to visit, and the way they should sit, laugh, and talk. In cases where families aren’t against girls riding bikes, other commuters on the road do every bit to make things difficult for them. From insensitive, lecherous ogling to deliberate attempts at distraction, men with misplaced ideas of manliness do all they can to keep the women off the road. Just like ‘upper-caste’ priests historically hijacked religion, men with a superiority complex have always tried to hold biking in an exclusively male domain. We Indian men need to realise that love and respect beget love and respect, and girls deserve to experience all the fun and utility of motorcycling as much as anyone else.