I'm pretty sure hell does not exist; I'm also fairly certain that the one credited with conjuring up hell was a sleep-laden biker riding down the unlit ragged pathways that plot to extinguish his breath with every spin of his wheel. 60 spins, he lives, 80 he dies. A skid on a spin, he dies. Gamble he will for his life; win he might, for now. I see the justification to eternal damnation as I curse opposing traffic that persistently blinds me with high beams. I try desperately to stay on course or at least on the tarmac or the mere semblance of it. The pristine roads have long since given in to a medley of cobbled stones, dust and cracked tarmac. It’s been in excess of 3 hours since we bid adieu to Patnitop. My body experiences a familiar ache. My wrist begins to give in as I find it increasingly difficult to squeeze the clutch. The terrain and traffic beg for more. We break briefly to capture our resolve to live just a tad longer, ride a tad further...
Facebook update: 100km away from Srinagar. Getting colder now. Eating chicken curry n rice at da dhaba.
03 June at 20:43 via Text message
Satyen Makhija, Sagar Raikar and Honey Misra like this.
Tushar Jadhav wow thts a really good combo. hows a weather out there? ride safe guyz.
03 June at 20:47
Sagar Raikar are yaar that's mouth watering......
04 June at 00:59
We break to refuel our bodies, rest our souls. Heaven does not come cheap and neither does chicken curry and rice in a location where there are few alternatives; as someone wisely said – the first mantra of Business – location, location, location. We must get to Srinagar tonight. Its a promise we made to Aman and a promise we made to the Puneris; a promise we intend to keep. My mind, though, languishes the loss of Patnitop to time for I would have certainly loved to get to know her curves better. Several deliriously delicious moments later, we trudge on.
As 9 falls, we hit the Jawahar Tunnel - a marvel of construction attributed to German engineering. Operational since December 22, 1956, the tunnel runs a length of 2.5 kilometers (1.6 miles) cutting through the gigantic Pir Panjal mountain range and links Jammu to the Kashmir Valley allowing for year-round connectivity. Closely guarded by the army, and maintained by the Border Roads Organization ('BRO'), the tunnel boasts of round-the-clock CC TV surveillance and computer controlled lighting, ventilation and security systems. Motorbreath though, marvels it from an entirely different angle. Narrow tunnels, such as this one, bounce off sound waves seemingly endlessly amplifying the echoes to preposterous levels. The Pulsar's 200cc roar sounds no less than 600. Motorbreath trails behind me, lets me gain on him, then opens the throttle as decibels rip through the chilly, stagnant air. And even though I understand the phenomenon, my auditory senses send chills up my spine as my eyes dart towards the rear-view and my body braces for a monster collision; one that doesn't happen. Several revs later, by body begins to believe what my mind already knows and I settle some.
We've reached Titanic Point - one that would, on a normal day, mesmerize our senses with a grand first view of the Kashmir valley. Except that, it isn't day, it's night and all we see is pitch darkness. I'm bummed for I absolutely, positively want to experience the view. The Universe takes me in its fold and whispers pseudo-mystically "If its not below, it must be above". "Nonsense!", I think to myself, even as I casually steal a glance at the skies above. And there they are... the most numerous, the most beautiful, the grandest, the shiniest stars I ever did see. I understand the scientific brainlessness of my prior statement; imagine me flashing you with my creative license. Booya!
T'is time to run again. The weather is turning on us. Lightning angers thunder; thunder responds with rain. All we experience for now is a light drizzle. The horizon, though, promises nothing short of hostility as lighting bolts electrocute a violent ether. The wind warns us of impending duress, impeding our progress by laying down a tree across the path we take. The fallen tree will take more than man to displace. We respect nature's message; but we need to be within the four walls that await us in Srinagar. And so, with the aid of companions in time, we haul our bikes over dead logs. It takes 4 for each one of our steeds but we make it.
The roads to come will present the remainder of nature's fury. For the rain comes down savagely and cross winds rattle our steeds furiously. I can only feel the forces, but Aman's steed in the distance gives me a visual attestation of how truly fucked we are; for he is being pushed directly into the path of oncoming trailers by remorseless gusts. At this point, it truly is each man for himself for the conditions make it near impossible for one to consider another. Time slows down to a trickle as we struggle to maintain momentum. Breaking barks present untold horrors as we snake through a force more powerful than the collective we.
Fortunately, we make it. The winds give way to a mild breeze. Rains refrain. I estimate we are in Srinagar. I know nothing for sure. But a word with a stationed military unit confirms my estimation. We've made it to Srinagar.
We must now find our restort, where the Puneris promise us shelter. After a widespread search, we hit home. We look for parking space; much to our dismay, there is none. We must park in mud and grime. We are to be greeted by one Puneri, Inder. The rest I am told, are asleep. We agree to compare notes in the morning. We've come a long way today to make good our word to Aman. We must rest our senses now or risk being forced into the unconscious.
June 4, 2010
A risen sun brings disheartening news; the hotelier informs us that the Puneris have departed leaving us behind for we failed to awaken at the scheduled hour of 6am or the whereabouts. I faintly recall a knock on the door; I certainly recall thinking - we've left no stone unturned to make it thus far the night prior; surely they'll understand. I was wrong. I want to be angry; but all my mind can come up with, and justifiably so, is "Fuck them. We do this our way, on our clock."...
And we do...
"Fuck them. We do this our way, on our clock."...
ReplyDeleteI lyk this...