A journey to remember

I had taken the last flight out, and it was nearing midnight as I stood in the organized chaos that was the Mumbai airport. It was my first trip to this city, and I marveled at the hordes of passengers that thronged the arrival bay of the airport even at this late hour. People were milling around each of the multiple conveyor belts, and harried looking attendants were wheeling in serpentine lines of trolleys. The place bore a marked resemblance to a busy anthill. It was with some difficulty that I managed to retrieve my luggage - a pair of saddlebags, a tank bag, sleeping bag and mat rolled up in a waterproof cover and my riding helmet. 

As I wheeled my luggage out, I looked forward to the days ahead with more than a slight sense of excitement. I had given in to my passion for motorcycle touring a little over a year ago, and had gotten myself enrolled in a reputed motorcycle club. As I spread my wings and increased the circumference of my rides, the club slowly but surely became more like an extended family. While we preferred to do most of our rides in smaller groups of threes and fours, there were a few occasions where members from across the country came together do a single, common ride, and these occasions invariably turned out to be nothing short of madness. This was one such occasion, and we were to spend the next week touring some of the lesser known, forested districts of the neighbouring state of Gujarat.

My friends received me at the airport and we headed to one of their apartments, where we were to spend the night before leaving the next morning.

It was at the landing of the apartment, as we were dragging our luggage to the elevator, that I first noticed him. A mop of unkempt, salt and pepper curls topped his head, and his face was adorned by what looked like two or three days worth of stubble. He was short, about five feet five inches, and was dressed in a black t-shirt and old faded jeans. A lopsided grin broke on his face as he saw us, and he introduced himself with a simple "Hi, I'm Zaheer". As we shook hands and walked to the elevator, I noticed he had a bit of pronounced limp, causing me to wonder if he was fit enough for the ride.

I was engulfed in a sea of familiar faces as we reached the apartment and amidst all the hugging and back slapping, I soon forgot all about Zaheer. A party was already well under way and the air was filled with laughter. Individual ride stories were being exchanged all around.

It was only after I had settled down and had a few drinks under my belt that I noticed Zaheer again. He was lounging back on a sofa, legs crossed, that lopsided, slightly drunken grin on his face, and he looked the picture of contentment. He was conversing with a member from Delhi, only as I listened, I realized it wasn't just a normal conversation. This guy seemed to have a born penchant for wit, and was cracking joke after joke at top speed. He'd take the most mundane of conversation and turn it around on its head, until we'd all be forced into senseless laughter. He was, in short, turning out to be the life of the party.

The conversation soon turned to Zaheer's riding skills, and there was a general murmur of agreement as someone commented that he was the craziest rider they had ever seen. Earlier in the day he had volunteered to escort a few of the members who had ridden down from Bangalore to the apartment, and although they were all seasoned riders who had spent the past two days covering a third of the country, they were unable to keep up with Zaheer on the Mumbai roads. Eventually they lost him in the traffic and had to find their own way to the apartment. Zaheer was listening to their grudging appreciation for his riding skills with a smug look on his face; this was another characteristic I'd soon associate with him...he had an unending appetite for praise, or pretended to have one, at any rate. Not for him the embarrassed smile or self-conscious denial. Rather, he'd take every opportunity to bask in his own glory, sometimes even prompting the right words with a mischievous glint in his eye. 

The next morning we were all business again, as we loaded our bikes for the long journey ahead. I noticed that Zaheer was one of the few people who did not have an ancient Royal Enfield 'Bullet' 350cc bike, which for all its shortcomings, had become synonymous with touring in India. Instead he had a modern 180cc bike, and I wasn't entirely surprised to see a sidecar attached to it. I figured he probably had some recent injury to his legs judging by his gait, and a sidecar probably made it easier to ride. It soon took on the role of a backup vehicle, with people loading the food, drink and other supplies into it.

A sound like low rumbling thunder soon filled the neighbourhood as twenty-six bikes were started and revved up simultaneously. I felt that familiar sense of freedom that always comes at the start of a ride; a sense of breaking free of the shackles that bound me me to the routine monotony of life, freedom from the schedules and timelines that governed my daily existence.

It’s quite common, while on a ride of this nature, to draw curious glances from passers by. After all its not everyday that one sees 26 luggage laden Bullets speeding together through city roads. Zaheer, however, was drawing more than the usual share of glances because of his sidecar. To anyone who happened to ask him where we were headed to, he would gleefully reply "Oh, we're just riding to the office" before speeding off and leaving them mystified. And if someone asked him "Why the sidecar?” the standard reply was "Its just in case I lose balance"

The city roads soon gave way to the state highway, which in turn gave way to narrow, winding country lanes by early evening. We were just a few kilometers from our campsite when we had a breakdown. We had made a brief pit stop to stretch our legs and have a cup of tea, and Zaheer's bike refused to start up again. After some tinkering around, it was diagnosed with a faulty dynamo, and the only solution was for a spare dynamo to be purchased from the nearest town, about 30km away. Zaheer took it in his stride, and suggested that the rest of us go on and set up camp while he and a couple of others stayed back to fix the bike. It was a practical suggestion and after some debate, the rest of us rode off, leaving Zaheer and three others behind in the gathering darkness.

The campsite we had chosen for that day was a beautiful spot, a small strip of grass sandwiched between a fast-flowing river on one side and a forest on the other. It was a pristine location without any roads leading to it, accessible only after several hundred meters of riding alongside the river bank. We busied ourselves setting up camp. Tents were pitched, firewood collected and a makeshift kitchen set up. A few of the guys went off to a nearby village and returned with a chicken, and soon our pots and pans were bubbling over the campfire.

After a few hours, we noticed headlights in the distance and realized Zaheer & party had found us. Zaheer answered our shouted queries with quick blasts of his horn and theatrical high revs of the throttle, and we laughed as we figured the problem had probably been sorted out. Zaheer was in high spirits; they had managed to find the only spares shop in the town which had a single replacement part, and they had also gotten a local mechanic to fix the bike.

As the rest of us got back to our kitchen duties, he decided the proceedings were rather dull and took it upon himself to enliven the surroundings. He perched himself under a tree, a bottle of booze in hand, and started belting out old classical songs at top volume. The silence of the jungle was rudely shattered, birds flew off their nests in alarm and a hyena started howling in the distance, but Zaheer was in his element and there was no stopping him. A few others decided that if they couldn't stop him, they may as well join him, and soon a full-fledged singing session was in place, complete with background chorus and music drummed out on tin plates and mugs. This continued on till the wee hours of the morning when we finally decided it was time for some shut-eye.

I was one of the first to wake up the next morning. It had rained the night before, and there was the pleasing, fresh smell of rain in the air. As I headed to the river for my morning duties, I noticed Zaheer heading out alone on his bike. He gave me a cheery wave and yelled out that he was going to organize breakfast before zooming off.

The camp slowly stirred to life a few hours later with people crawling out of their tents. Some headed to the river with towels and toilet paper in hand, and some others followed them with cameras in hand. The rest of us lazed around, indulging in idle chatter. A while later Zaheer returned with a villager perched in the pillion seat holding a kettle filled with tea, and breakfast packets in the sidecar. All of us mobbed the villager with grateful words of thanks to Zaheer...which he gleefully accepted while looking around expectantly for more.

Soon it was time to leave and we started to pack up. The day's schedule involved riding through interior roads to reach our main destination, a roadside waterfall, and after we had bathed to our heart's content, head towards the next town and set up camp in the forest beyond.

The landscape we rode through that day was overwhelmingly beautiful. It was like we had entered a world that had been painted a lush shade of green only a few hours ago. The forest was interspersed with small streams that sometimes crossed our path before meandering away.

While I was riding through this stretch, blissfully immersed in my own thoughts, I noticed bikes piled up at the path ahead. As I neared, I saw that the previous night's rain had turned what had once been a dirt track into a stretch of muck several inches deep. The guys ahead had stopped to see if there was another way forward as it seemed unlikely our heavily laden bikes could cross this stretch. After some investigation, though, we realized we had no other option but to cross it. A few of the guys stationed themselves at key points to help out anyone who got stuck, and we proceeded one bike at a time.

It was tough, obviously. Tires whirred madly in the mud while we tried to steady the wobbling bikes with both legs on the ground. We had to maintain a steady momentum throughout to clear the patch...stopping or slowing down in between would cause the bikes to sink into the muck and make them virtually impossible to start again. Several bikes did get stuck and we had to physically lift the wheels up and push them out again.

After a while, it was Zaheer's turn and I looked back to watch, as did most others. None of us had ever seen a bike with sidecar negotiating a stretch like this. Now its not easy managing a sidecar under normal circumstances, let alone through deep muck on a winding dirt road. The sidecar tends to drag the bike sideways so you need to compensate by counter steering. Its difficult to turn towards it, and and a hard turn in the other direction could cause the sidecar to come off the ground and topple over.

I needn't have worried though. Watching Zaheer cross, I realized his reputation was well founded...he would have done a professional motocross racer proud. The bike drifted sideways on several occasions, the sidecar wheel came off the ground even more often, the bike bounced around but Zaheer never lost control...or speed. He sped through resolutely, teeth gritted, muck flying all around, and he had nearly crossed the entire stretch when the bike finally got stuck. A couple of us lifted up the rear wheel, a few more revs on the throttle and he was through, none the worse for wear. 

Soon we had all crossed the stretch...a couple of guys had falls but thankfully it was nothing serious. After a brief rest, we continued on again.

We finally reached the waterfall a few hours later. It was a small waterfall a few feet from the road, and the water fell into a delightful little waist-deep pool, before overflowing across the road and disappearing down the ravine on the other side. There were loud whoops all around as we glimpsed the falls, and the rider ahead of me parked his bike in a hurry, leapt off and jumped into the pool fully clothed. We all laughed and followed suit. All except Zaheer, that is. He hadn't even gotten off his bike. "What's wrong with him" I wondered as I jumped in myself "Does he not like the water or what?

I heard a few exclamations just as I was getting out of the pool a while later. Someone was pointing to the rocks by the water's edge and saying "Look, someone's wearing really big boots". As I turned around, that’s what it looked like for an instant, before I realized that it wasn't boots, it was more like a pair of disembodied legs, complete with track pants and shoes. The next moment, the laughter suddenly died down as others noticed them too for what they were - a pair of prosthetic legs. I felt a slight shock as the truth hit me...Zaheer didn't have an injury on his legs, he just didn't have any legs!

The shock was probably evident on all our faces, for one of the older members, who'd known Zaheer for a few years now, stopped by and said that yes, Zaheer was a double amputee. He had lost his legs when he was young...probably in his twenties...but he hadn't let that dampen his enthusiasm for life one bit. He never spoke about his handicap, or expected any sort of differential treatment. And he proved himself repeatedly by doing some of the toughest rides, both solo and with other club members. Only for Zaheer, it wasn't like he was trying to make a point, or a statement of some sort. He was simply doing what he did best...enjoy life to the full and live his passion for travelling.

We all turned to look at Zaheer in that instant, and he had somehow managed to work his way past the deepest stretch of water to some smooth rocks just below the falls, and was lying there letting the water crash onto him, laughing and clearly having the time of his life. I saw a sudden look of respect on most of the members’ eyes, a look that was reflected in my own. A lot of us were hardcore riders; we reveled in living on the edge and took pride in our achievements. Sometimes to the extent that we couldn't resist a bit of boasting, and letting our egos slip out once in a while. And as we saw Zaheer lying there under the waterfall, laughing with not a care in the world, I guess we saw a live example of what riding was all about, or in a broader sense what passion was all about. It wasn't about making a show of yourself, or proving a point to the world, or trying to highlight yourself through extraordinary acts. It was simply about fulfilling your passion, no matter what the circumstances or the obstacles in your path. And in a way it was very intrinsic, because all the recognition in the world and all the cheering weren’t worth it if you didn't enjoy doing it. And conversely, if you were one of the few who did have the courage to laugh at the obstacles that life threw at you and still did your best to enjoy the good moments that occasionally came your way, the recognition would follow.

Later that night, we hesitantly asked Zaheer his story, and he narrated it in his characteristic frank fashion. He was in college, studying to be an engineer when he lost both his legs in a train accident. He had only discovered his love for biking a few years earlier, and didn't want it taken away so soon. He had tried out a few options before settling on attaching a sidecar to the bike. Since he couldn't feel the gear lever with his foot, he experimented with various hand and thumb operated levers before hitting on a solution that was ingenious in his simplicity; he tied his left shoelace securely to the gear lever, so the gears would shift when he lifted or pushed his leg down a bit. And after that there had been no looking back. He owned a car with automatic transmission, but he considered himself "born to ride" and only used the car when it was absolutely necessary.

And in the days that followed, he continued to impress and annoy us in turns with his antics. The day after the waterfall session, we chanced upon an old abandoned forest rest house, one that was completely isolated, set amidst beautiful green fields that bordered the forest. We decided to make it our base for the next couple of days and explore the surroundings. Shortly after we had unpacked, Zaheer took off alone on an exploratory ride and returned several hours later. He said he was so mesmerized by the scenery that he just kept riding, and before he knew it he had crossed the state borders and moved into the neighbouring state of Maharashtra. He then proceeded to "mark his territory" there before heading back.

The next morning, we went to visit another nearby waterfall, this one supposedly the highest waterfall in the region. Zaheer was having some shut-eye and said he'd join us later. After negotiating some steep slopes and climbs, we reached the waterfall and spent a good couple of hours there. Just as we were heading back we saw Zaheer approaching and told him he wouldn't make it. There was a steep incline just before the entrance to the falls, and his smaller bike, already burdened with the sidecar would not be able to cross it. His only response was to laugh, rev up the bike and speed towards the incline. The rest of us looked at each other, rolled our eyes and waited. Sure enough, a few minutes later he returned looking slightly crestfallen; his bike did not have sufficient power to climb the incline. That started him joking about rigging up the sidecar with a second engine to handle instances such as these.

Another day passed by a little too quickly as we explored the countryside in the day and sat enjoying ourselves by the campfire at night, and then it was time to head back to Mumbai, and back to our normal lives from there on. As I rode back to the city, watching the green countryside give way to dusty highways and increasing amounts of traffic, I couldn't help but reflect on the days gone by. In many ways this ride had been all I expected, in that I got to meet old friends and make new ones, explore a new place and experience life in idyllic, rustic settings. But the real magic of a ride lies in the fact that you never fully know what to expect. And nothing could be truer of this ride. Much as I appreciated and admired my fellow riders, I had never bargained that I would meet someone who made me change the way I looked at life. People are always telling you how you should make the most out of what you have, to count your blessings and not your sorrows. I had always thought that sounded easy enough in theory, but now I had met someone who put it into practice every single day of his life. Someone who, in less than a week, had put all of my insignificant problems in perspective by showing me how he dealt with his own.

Its been back to the grind since then, and I haven't had the time to even think about taking a holiday, but just a few days ago I saw an e-mail from Zaheer to the group, saying he was planning a week long ride to the desert this December and asking if anyone wanted to join. His agenda - to try and slip past the country's border outpost this time. I can't wait to join him!