Motorcycle Diaries 2 – Living outside the Box

The night seemed long and interrupted with expectancy.

At the early light of the dawn, I looked outside the window at perhaps one of the most exciting day of the year – a day of riding and living.

The bike was cleaned, and I sipped my coffee after a shower. As the key turned on the ignition, the bike sprang to life with anticipation. The reluctant winter sun with mellowed warmth greeted, as the bike climbed outside the basement parking slope.

There were vendors selling vegetables, shops still with shutters and few school buses with children in warm clothes. The dust of the day was stamped below the morning dew. The clear blue sky gave the morning a brand new identity.

The road and thoughts

It was my third solo ride, and did not require any distraction of maps for the familiarity of the destination.

The city was giving away to the highway as the bike rolled past the tall buildings, metro stations to the distant metro pillars that were under construction.

The complexity of the city was visible in the rear-view mirrors, and it began to recede.

With lesser traffic, the chatter in the head took over.

The mind inside the helmet is like a kaleidoscope. It creates images, thoughts and reflections with repeating patterns. While the eyes gaze at the highway with the gentle vibrations of the motor transmitting into your being, the mind stays busy.

Memories tucked in some corner flash without a calling. There are some that bring a smile, and some that wreck the harmony. In over 7 years of riding, I have learnt to give these thoughts a playground. Riding is about the mind, as much about being embedded in a changing physical milieu.

As the thoughts tire and retire, I concentrate on the road, the ponds with water lilies and the corn fields passing by.

The first stop was at a road-side restaurant, my favourite over the years for a plate of thatte idlis some smoking hot sambar and generous dose of coconut chutney. Some fellow travellers on other tables bit into their dosas and children looked happy with their spoonful of pineapple kesari, a sweet delicacy.  

A glass of cold water flushed down the food, and some balance murmur in the head.

The detour

As kharif rice ripened in the fields on both sides of the highway, I took a moment to stop the bike and look at the farmers with their spouses working alongside. Another farmer in an adjacent field was loading turmeric leaves on the pillion seat of man waiting on his bike.

Their hardwork was humbling.

The road ahead threw changing crop patterns, from the ones with straw stubble, the ones ready to harvest to the ones where fresh green seedlings had germinated from the dark brown soil.

I was 90 kilometers and two hours from home, soaking the highway and the environs. The familiar highway was turning right towards my destination, and with some impulse I turned left.

The board by the highway had the image of a waterfall – Barachukki falls. My heart leapt with joy of the unseen.

The impulse paid off with a winding road passing through two ancient temples, into a forest department gate. With an entry pass, I rode towards the waterfall.

It turned out to be among the best detours that I had taken in my life. Barachukki falls was jaw-dropping with the Kaveri River running down deep ravines into two streams, and the gentle foam in a resplendent green background was ethereal.

Children under a guided school tour rejoiced around me. As I walked back to the parking area, I saw more children coming out of couple of buses in queues, many in basic shoes and some bare feet…all evenly smiling.

The tiger reserve and the new sign posts

The last 20 kms of the 180 to my destination passed through a protected sanctuary called BRT Tiger Reserve.

Unlike previous two occasions I was stopped at the entry gate to provide details on a register. A one-pager leaflet was handed over to me that had instructions on not stopping, feeding animals, against honking and few more.

A priest in his teens was standing by with a thali and ready to bless me against any animal attack or, be a potential lunch to hungry man-eater.

I thanked him and denying to make any contribution eroded his smile, and he promptly recalled his blessings leaving me to the elements. My smile was intact.

However, the new security procedures and divine insurance created some concern in my mind.

Barely 2 kms into the reserve I saw a tractor ambling leisurely with three villagers on the cargo side. Common sense told me that I just needed to be ahead of this tractor, and there was food behind me for any hungry predator.

Some newly put sign posts caught my attention. It said – “Drive dead slow – Animals crossing”.

In a tiger reserve, either you don’t allow motor bikers or, have separate instructions for them.

Or, they are the meal.

The ride through the reserve was as special as it always has been; there were motor bikers crossing without helmets, an occasional bus and some dead slow cars hoping to sight a tiger.

Destination and the bond

I reached BR Hills and the homestay well in time for the lunch.

It was simple, endearing and comforting for the journey since morning.

The evening sunset amidst hills and forests is a postcard memory; the cold breeze and falling temperature infuse a quiet harmony.

The temple bells rang for the evening arti up the hill, and I saw the lights peeping through heavy foliage.

My companion, a local youth from the homestay, shared about his roots as a tribal from the hills.

As we sat at the view point overlooking the sunset, he pointed at a bamboo tree. It had flowers on it.

“That is a 60-70 year old tree that our forefathers had planted. It is dying.”

“As the tree dies, these flowers come up and have seeds that are eaten as bamboo rice.” He added.

I looked at the tree with some more attention; the end of a lifecycle, and the last offering, selflessly and purposefully.

The night was crawling into the forest below; the flashes of the day from water lilies to farmers, crops, the changing color of soil to the bamboo tree was panoramic.

The ride down the hill to homestay was of gratitude, of living outside the box.