Everything seemed ideal at the start of my ride from Allahabad to Mumbai. I had skins for comfort in the hostile winters of the three states through which I would ride; haversack was happily hanging on the left and most importantly, Kartoos (my motorcycle) sounded eerily hungry, eager to swallow 1400 km. I was excited and delighted with the lonely ride. I always liked to drive alone because it gave me the freedom to stop somewhere, light a cigarette and look around.
The first day of my ride was common, as I started at 1 in the afternoon and expected to arrive in Jabalpur at 8am and seek refuge at the hotel. Covering 400 hundred miles in 8 hours was not easy. Road conditions and other drivers like drunk and drowsy truck drivers make passing very thorny.
After exiting the borders of Allahabad, I entered the terrible area of Reva, which I call the Red City. The flying red soil from the ground creates blinding layers of dust. Roads are completely decomposed by countless dinosaurs. Certainly the most treacherous road I’ve ever taken in my 15 years of driving experience; it took me 3 hours to travel 25 km while my wrists wept in pain, managing a 500cc clutch and balancing a 200 pound meteor machine. Interestingly, the city of this city looks amazingly synonymous with its bloody footprints. That's right; is rated as one of the most violent in Uttar Pradesh. Anyway, I reached Jabalpur around 9 o'clock P.M. and took shelter at a hotel on Russell Street, though no one knew who Russell was.
The second day started early and I left the hotel around 5 am with the intention of swallowing 250 km quickly between Jabalpur and Nagpur. Roads connecting the two cities and the two states can also be used as a runway for private jets, as theirs are alluringly wide, with no sign of human existence as much as 25 km on the course. I fell open and I had a lot of fun on this stretch.
Covering 250 km in 3 hours should confirm this term. But soon all of this should stop like a bubble blowing.
As I entered Maharashtra, the rain fell and I was surprised. Holding me in the expectation that the rain would stop at no time because it was not raining in the month of November, for the first few minutes I tried to remain calm and unaware of the terrifying thought of riding in the rain.
After not seeing the betrayal in the determination to deprive me of the right to ride, I pulled myself up and lit a cigarette, this time not to see or open any thoughtful window of my mind, but to comfort my nerves, momentarily suffering anxiety. I decided to have some tea and think about strategies for dealing with a nice opponent. By now I was completely wet and the freezing rain did what it could; I started freezing. Sitting in a crib, at the daba in Nagpur places, I began to account for the disadvantages and disadvantages of riding; I came to some depressing conclusions.
The rains make the roads moist and slippery, which slows down the speed of the motorcycle and things get worse as the human body is directly exposed to the eyelashes. This meant that in the next few hours I would suffer from brutal physical pain. Wet glasses made the vision blurry, and I didn't have snakes on my comfortable glasses and had to get rid of them, which meant eye pain. With all this, the rain creates treacherous miles for both drivers and drivers.
Consequently, I suffered the first nervous breakdown after getting rid of the flashes of these distractions that would unleash on me if the rain did not interfere.
Not finding solutions to these frightening problems, I returned to the saddle and started driving again. In the meantime, it was my effort to find a fan in the wind; surprisingly I didn't find one with the right dimensions until I reached Nasik (600 km from Nagpur).
As expected, the speed was drastically reduced due to wet roads and the sight of perishable rains. I rode in wet clothes and boots for another eight hours with frequent stops on freeways on the freeway. Inserting a dhaba every 50 km and almost melting my body as I stood near the tandor became a convention. Because of these tandors, my bones remained a serviceable 12 hours of wicked rain riding.
I witnessed approximately 8 to 10 accidents between Nagpur and Mumbai involving vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Most of the accidents were caused by unforeseen showers and congested road conditions.
From Allahabad to Mumbai, at least 50% of the highway is being remodeled according to the Golden Quadrangle plan which began during Atal Bihari Vajpayee's term as prime minister. The Akola Highway is also part of this redevelopment plan; therefore, hard work is underway to improve these roads. And government employees were too busy to notice that building materials such as sand, tar, blue metal, and more. Scattered all over the highway, which can lead to disaster. The combination of water, pollution and dust has just been perfected with tar and blue metal mixed in it with the tips of countless holes. It was harder to see and drive now.
Sometimes the holes look shallower than they actually are; I underestimated the depth of one such hole. As I tried to overtake the truck, I dove into a real deep one, which gave me wings. As the Kartoos front suspension slid into it, I felt the rear tire rise above the ground.
Despite the stiffness that drives a person's mind after a fall, I have developed the habit of always running towards the beast and examining the injuries it suffered before examining mine. I tried to continue with my own unwritten convention even in this fall. I ran to Kartoos, picked it up and ran along the side of the road, where I parked it in the center stand. Then I sat back leaning against a tree and smoking a cigarette. I experienced many minor cuts and bruises on my palms and knees, but my right calf burned a little too wide after contact with the Kartoos exhaust pipe.
After the accident, I sat by the side of the road for an hour, applying toothpaste on a burnt calf, while Kartoos resting on a central pedestal continued to look unobtrusive, while lorries and S.T trucks were moving at a snail's pace.
There was no civilization 100 km. back and forth. After the accident, my body got bruised, but my mind almost fell on my coat. I felt miserable, desperate to get home and feel the warmth of my cave. I tried to call my loved ones, but my cellphone couldn't find a signal in this forbidden country. Fortunately, Kartoos forgave me for the madness and headed for the first blow. I had to ignore the bruises, get back in the saddle and keep driving.
"Traveling is like marriage. A certain way to be wrong is to think that you control it."
– John Steinbeck.
I continued to ride as darkness covered the lands. At 9 at night I was too tired to study the path I was taking; I simply followed the taillights of S.T buses and big trucks to travel distances that seemed endless. The combination of water, tar and oil with broken roads is deadly. If it weren't for these larger vehicles, I wouldn't have actually reached Mumbai for another 3 days.
That night for the first time in my life I regretted being alone. I drove along lonely roads without any civilization to find comfort in these difficult times; the only moving objects around were the annoying closed-door vehicles.
Thinking about the terrible circumstances I was in, I prayed for life and hoped that I would not die tonight. There were many chances that would play a significant role in the realization of this prophecy, such as deep holes in pots, isolated and slippery roads running through virgin forests, drunk truck drivers who did not bother to chase motorcyclists, local howitzers giving wings to the driver by inserting a lath into the front. rubber and then took away his possessions, maybe his life. And what if no one ever found out what happened to me.
When those cynical opinions were bogged down by my worn-out senses, I wondered what if I was accompanied by someone I knew and trusted, things would be simpler then. People have always criticized me for being exclusive, eccentric and interested in myself, and tonight I wished I wasn't so raw. Most times I drove alone. Going to the movies and eating outside; I neglected friends, family, God tonight, and I repented for all that; when the fear of death preoccupied my wits and loneliness, endangered me like a venomous snake, I realized the importance of relationships, friendship and love.
After that, I embarked on a process of answering imaginative questions, such as why we live together in societies, why we talk to each other, why we look at each other, because it is a human desire to be loved, to be cared for. , to be touched, to be talked to; It seemed to me that I had concluded the true meaning of life.
And as I thought about these enlightening conclusions, I saw a signboard saying Welcome to Nasik, which means that this difficult ordeal was over.
It was too precise about the restrooms and other facilities of the hotel room that night was not on my to-do list. When I entered Nasik, the mission was to shoot a warm bed; I rushed towards the first hotel that appeared on the horizon. I carefully parked Kartoos, unhooked my suitcase tied to the left of the back frame, and stormed into the hotel.
The old Sikh in the 60s was sitting at a reception in the middle of the hall, which was dimly lit, and Grandma Nanak was hanging above us all on the wall behind the table. I approached him trembling as if someone was obsessed and asked "Khaat milegi tau?" He looked at me suspiciously and asked if I had proof of identification and immediately began blaming the recent bomb blasts for his indecent behavior. Certainly, I said and bent down to open the wet hand-made beverage, in which water was pouring out of it and the wet clothes shook awkwardly. As I searched for my wallet, I looked up and saw the old man sliding toward me with his shoulders resting on the counter. I didn't blame him for that; I actually looked like a suspect on the run.
I finally found my wallet and handed him his license, he read it carefully and invited Ganesha, the boy from room to room, to take me to his room. Before I lit a cigarette, I asked for his permission and waited for Ganesh to come and take me to his room and a lovely thing called Bed.
Immediately a teenager came and asked me if he could raise a haversack, and I refused and told him to take me to the room immediately, which he did; he was smart to understand my despair. We went up one flight and got to the room where I was going to spend the big night. He opened the door and I saw it, the holy bed, which I felt called to me with open arms.
Ganesh asked me if I needed anything, when I resolutely answered no, he obediently left the room and I locked the door. I then went to sleep after a quick bath with warm water.
I woke up around 11 a.m. and felt rejuvenated after a deep and comfortable sleep. I stood on the bed with my back leaning against the wall, wondering about the things I had committed and the torments I had been through for the last 2 days. I remembered the thought that haunted me the night before and how I hung; the human desire to remain alive glowing. I got up and opened the window and a fresh breeze filled the room. I looked out the window, there were not many vehicles on the street even during this time of day; public holiday has been declared due to devilish rain.
I went out into the clothing store and found the wind that suited me. I tidied up my bill at the hotel and came to Kartoos. The cartoos beside me remained like a true friend, I concluded. I swung my right foot, settled into the saddle, and aristocratically ran out of town, on the road that took me home, through the beautiful Kasara ghat. The rain continued its attack, but it couldn't bother me anymore, as I said to myself and the rain "I went through the worst."
This trip not only changed my thinking about traveling, riding, people, God, love, family, life, death, loneliness, it changed me as a person. Even though I was sometimes scared and most of the times I felt horrified by the anxiety that was caused by the unforeseen November rains, I still laughed at the circumstances.
The man who broke into Mumbai's borders on November 16 is not the same one who left him 15 days back. These were undoubtedly the most exciting days of life.