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.