In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been surrounded by an air of adventure - the freedom fighters’ talk of going home, watching “Into the Wild”, reading “Kim” by Rudyard Kipling, talking about Jack Kerouac, and hanging out with Lex – a support marcher who refused to leave the country after receiving a “Quit India” notice.
The other day, I jumped at the chance to go on a long bike ride to run an errand for the marchers. There’s nothing like riding on the back of a Bullet with the wind in your hair to make you feel alive – except maybe driving one yourself!
The road we took wound northward, up and down hillsides, through tiny villages each different from the last, but all with curious faces watching us speed by. I kept getting lost in my thoughts, only to be pulled back into the world again by the hilariously gross sight of Indians puking out of busses or a beautiful vista revealing itself in front of us. In every new valley there was entirely different vegetation. We left jungle and headed into lush but cacti-ridden forests, which eventually turned into barren hillsides dotted with stick-like trees. We sped past the places where the marchers had camped about a month ago. In an hour we rode what it took them days to walk. I watched the road fly by beneath us and imagined every step the marchers took and how it must have felt under their feet. We also rode past the campsite where one of the marchers, Pema Tashi, passed away. I imagined the tent set up where monks stayed up all night to pray for his soul and the bonfire that was built for his cremation. I thought of my friend who held his body on the way to the hospital, and all those who prayed as watched his body burn. I wished I could have been there with them to share in their grief and their prayers for Pema Tashi.
The last 2o-odd kilometers we had to bump down a shortcut that was little more than a gravel path strewn with dry pine needles from the tall skinny trees with disproportionately giant pine cones. If we hadn’t been in a rush and my brain hadn’t been shaken around inside my skull to the point of feeling bruised, it would have been a beautiful ride. In 40 minutes we saw only two cars, which felt impressive for India. It wasn’t just me being roughed up, the bike lost half of its muffler along the way. And neither me nor my friend heard it fall off or noticed that the bike was suddenly a lot louder!
We ate a late lunch in a tiny town called Daul Chinna where we passed off work stuff and treats of Maggi noodles, Real juice and spread cheese to our marcher friends – strange what people miss when they are away from the comforts of their everyday life! Despite our sore asses, we booked it back to town so that we would get there before dark. As we sped around corners, I could feel our weight sink into the bike to be lifted again as we came out of the bend. I love the exhilaration I feel on a bike.
We left the warm sunny day behind as we came into the valley where we’re staying, which seems to be perpetually blanketed in mist and rain. I was giddy with tiredness, but was glad for the day’s break from the computer. It wasn’t much, but enough of an adventure to relieve the urge – for now.
The other day, I jumped at the chance to go on a long bike ride to run an errand for the marchers. There’s nothing like riding on the back of a Bullet with the wind in your hair to make you feel alive – except maybe driving one yourself!
The road we took wound northward, up and down hillsides, through tiny villages each different from the last, but all with curious faces watching us speed by. I kept getting lost in my thoughts, only to be pulled back into the world again by the hilariously gross sight of Indians puking out of busses or a beautiful vista revealing itself in front of us. In every new valley there was entirely different vegetation. We left jungle and headed into lush but cacti-ridden forests, which eventually turned into barren hillsides dotted with stick-like trees. We sped past the places where the marchers had camped about a month ago. In an hour we rode what it took them days to walk. I watched the road fly by beneath us and imagined every step the marchers took and how it must have felt under their feet. We also rode past the campsite where one of the marchers, Pema Tashi, passed away. I imagined the tent set up where monks stayed up all night to pray for his soul and the bonfire that was built for his cremation. I thought of my friend who held his body on the way to the hospital, and all those who prayed as watched his body burn. I wished I could have been there with them to share in their grief and their prayers for Pema Tashi.
The last 2o-odd kilometers we had to bump down a shortcut that was little more than a gravel path strewn with dry pine needles from the tall skinny trees with disproportionately giant pine cones. If we hadn’t been in a rush and my brain hadn’t been shaken around inside my skull to the point of feeling bruised, it would have been a beautiful ride. In 40 minutes we saw only two cars, which felt impressive for India. It wasn’t just me being roughed up, the bike lost half of its muffler along the way. And neither me nor my friend heard it fall off or noticed that the bike was suddenly a lot louder!
We ate a late lunch in a tiny town called Daul Chinna where we passed off work stuff and treats of Maggi noodles, Real juice and spread cheese to our marcher friends – strange what people miss when they are away from the comforts of their everyday life! Despite our sore asses, we booked it back to town so that we would get there before dark. As we sped around corners, I could feel our weight sink into the bike to be lifted again as we came out of the bend. I love the exhilaration I feel on a bike.
We left the warm sunny day behind as we came into the valley where we’re staying, which seems to be perpetually blanketed in mist and rain. I was giddy with tiredness, but was glad for the day’s break from the computer. It wasn’t much, but enough of an adventure to relieve the urge – for now.
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