On a Bright Sunny Day . . .

Greeting the Sun god in the morning, I rise from my bed. I know it is not going to be just another day for me. I have been through this feeling of déjà vu before quite a few times. Rather every time, when I have felt the hunger to gulp miles after miles of tar like an emaciated teen being offered a seven course meal. I know what will be coming my way today and so I need a good healthy breakfast. I know I don’t require looking presentable today. But I need to feel fresh. I need to be dressed to be comfortable and not stunning. That is me when I’m for myself. I do my ritual of making a quick check on all the necessary items that I carry along on such bright sunny days. Just then my mobile phone rings. It’s the second time since morning that this little gadget has sounded its alarm. First time it did to wake me up and now reminding me to carry a soft cloth with me as I leave my house. Coming down the elevator, that perpendicular pace gives me the same scary feeling that I get from all the niggling commuters I ride alongside and at times on them, on not so bright sunny days. As the lift door opens, my eyes greet my possession with bewildered excitement. I have no one but you I say and quickly peck her. Making us both feel good about this small public display of affection. The soft cloth comes handy to make sure that my other half also feels equally fresh and comfortable. And the early morning prayers commence with the chants . . . I crank her up.

She comes to life and the bright sunny day begins. I know where I have to go; on an open road. I understand what I need to do; need to dance with her on a twisty road. I know what I want from myself; another experience which cannot be put in words. I know what I want from her; accompaniment. I know what she wants from me; respect.

The early morning sun rays beam on the curves aiding her to shine in all the glory. I happen to pass a car with kids in its back seat. They gawk at me. It is clear they are surprised to find that the grass is actually greener on the other side. That is, on my side. I just nod, smile and move on. Like always. A grown up won’t be able to see what these innocent young eyes can. That is, pure ecstasy. It is the happiness which is well above the profusion of flimsy green carrots. After a fulfilling and satisfactory first set of arm-wrenching corners, I come to a halt at my usual fuel station to top up. Once at it, I learn one important thing or lesson you can say. The green carrots are not completely useless, as much as I thought them to be. For me to keep such blissful rides coming, I need them around at the back of my branded denims. As the station guy bids me adieu, I just ponder over these thoughts, smile and move on. Like always. Its not that my everyday life doesn’t teach me these lessons, but I love to learn it this way. The learning is easy and entertaining when the mountains that surround you, give the roll call. The river replaces the dull concrete corridors and the loud truck horns ring the bell to get you out of the fantasy land like a back bencher would be aroused when dreaming in class. It is all so real yet so magical. Just because the way it takes place. The best part being, not all can learn it the way a biker does. The reality is that, bikers have more fun than people do.

As all these thoughts constitute my ride this time, I decide to head back home fully satisfied and looking forward to yet another unforgettable ride when the mountains call me and my two-wheeled dame.

Once again I hit the road and everything seems so much right in place. I cannot comprehend what name to give to this feeling experienced every time I pass a car on a curve leaned, and the car guy is left spell bound. Every time when I take out my helmet

and shake my head in sheer delight. Whenever I see the sunrise or the sunset and stop by the highway just to admire its beauty. The open roads that seem never-ending give me another reason to live longer. Words like bliss, happiness and satisfaction sound too clichéd and moreover understated to put these wild emotions on paper in ink. There is so much more to it than what meets the eye.

So here I am, on the open road dancing with her on the curves. Notching up familiar experience and still finding it hard to put it in words. So the next time someone asks you what is it that makes us so vulnerable to these so called machines? Just tell them, “Dancing is considered insane by those who cannot hear the music.”