I'm am fortunate for Aman stands besides me, lifting my steed off my trapped body. It is moments like these that turn animosity to dust. For I know that I am helpless without his aid, as does he. He helps, pushing our differences aside. I dust myself off, inspect the machine - all is well - get back on and we are enroute again. Spiderweb and Motorbreath await our arrival, unaware of my brush with calamity. I inform them, respond to concerned queries and we all move along. Nature continues to belittle our imaginations until we can imagine no more. I rescind into the role of a mechanical shutter bug, creating memories to be consumed days into the future for consume I can no more. Nature's beauty has outlasted my ability to sense it, overwhelmed it, laughed in its face, emerged victorious. I am unworthy, as I suspect, are the rest of we. I begin to ponder on my insignificance in the grand scheme of the cosmos.
My reverie is broken when we encounter a beast too feeble to rise onto its hooves. It lays on a blind corner, in clear an present danger of being run over by an oncoming vehicle.
Motorbreath hops off his steed and, unaware of the beast's condition, attempts to scare it off the road - at first with the pounding of his feet followed by gentle nudges to its side. The beast attempts to rise in vain, its frail hooves wobbling under the weight of its body. It collapses back down onto gravel and stone, unable to move. Motorbreath attempts to lift it in his arms, but its too heavy for one; perhaps light enough for two. I volunteer. As I rev up and maneuver my steed across the gravely road, a gentle pump on the brakes sends us skidding across the surface and once again I find myself face down. This time though, the steed takes a beating, as the right rear-view-mirror (RVM) splits into two under the weight of the steed, the tail bag, the saddle bags and I. As it bounces off into the distance, I stare in horror. What have I done!?! My precious steed. How could I? If only... but....
The negative impact of the crash is balanced out by the positive ascend of the beast the deafening sounds around it give it the adrenalin rush it needs to pull itself up and scurry across the road into a safe zone.
Bitch.
As is customary, we press forward.
Many moments later, we arrive at the promised land. A dwarf village with run-down structures built of mud and stone. And yes, herein we find a mechanic. Spiderweb has been silently pushing his steed to its maximum capacity in a bid to maintain forward momentum. On one occasion thus far, the machine overheated causing us to take an unscheduled break. I cannot begin to imagine his frustration. But he has maintained his composure despite the issues; never complaining; maintaining his lead when possible. Motorbreath on the other hand has more than once expressed his concern over his mutilated silencer and non-existent treads. The mechanic gets to work on the Karizma's tyres, detects the puncture which is quickly sealed by Motorbreath using our puncture kit. He then proceeds to work on the Pulsar's silencer, promising that when he's done with it, it will be in factory condition. Apparently, factory condition has a very different connotation in that part of the world, for the silencer does not hold its place for more than 3 seconds before breaking into a familiar and violent dance.
I too make feeble attempts to affix my RVM using super glue. I fail miserably. And so, while the steeds are being worked on, I slip into a casual conversation with the man who never bought the Ferrari.
When I ask what he desires out of life, he responds, "To live."
When I ask if he desires to someday see more of the world, he replies "I have lived long enough, walked far enough, experienced deep enough. I do not desire anything more. I am at peace. I have only death to experience."
When I ask what he does to survive he replies, "Run this store, earn a few pennies, invest it in essentials, grow my own food, sleep a good nights sleep."
When I ask if he runs the store through the year, he replies, "No. 4 months is all we get. For the remaining, its too cold to be outdoors. We stay indoors for the most part, venturing out only to dig out stored food."
"Dig out stored food?", I ask. "Yes. We can only grow vegetables for 4 months. Once the snow sets in, we store our produce under the ground. Only 50% of our produce survives the harsh winter. We make do with whatever remains."
"How much for the super glue?".
"One rupee, like it says on the pack."
"You could ask for more you know. You're the only one here with this stock for miles."
"I don't need more. An honest days living is sufficient for my needs.", he says with a smile and a twinkle of innocence in his battered old eyes.
I feel foolish and small for offering him more.
Part of me wants to pity him - how little he experiences, how little he achieves. Most of me, though, reveres him, for as it stands today, I add nothing of significance to the global consciousness. I achieve as little or perhaps lesser than he. And I do it at a heavy price to the environment. My carbon footprint in a month far exceeds that of his in a year with a contribution to the planet no greater than his. Perhaps he leads a better life than I. Perhaps it is I who lacks experience and learning. Perhaps he had it right all along.
I can hear Spiderweb conversing with a band of tourists arriving from Leh. They seem thrilled by his revelation that our journey began as far as Mumbai roughly a week ago. He seems to be enjoying their attention and curiosity. They offer us snacks and tea. We gladly accept. I spend the remaining moments capturing memories - some will last only momentarily; while others will make a permanent home in my neural circuitry... permanent in as much as the permanence of my finite consciousness.
With patchy repairs in place, we hasten to say goodbye for we have miles to go before we sleep. With unsaid thank you's and undelivered hugs, I throttle up and thrust forward. I can only muster the courage for a wave. The peace in his eyes will rock the very core of my conscience. How do you say thank you to one that doesn't desire it...?
Gravel and stone under spinning wheels have become the norm now. I miss the tarmac though I would prefer not to kiss it again. A storm brews in the distant mountains. We can only guess we will meet it half way.
We are of the opinion that, in the interest of caution, we must gain as much ground as we can before sunset. All of we, except me that is. For I stop at nothing to stop at everything that I can frame within the confines of my lens. I have since chosen to ride without my gloves on - an unwise decision in general - but one that allows me to shoot and zoom in record time. I am given grief for my antics for there is a mild panic in their stride. The chill factor in the winds that slam us has risen disproportionately. My fingers go numb but I continue to be adamant and gloveless with fingers that display an unsettling shade of black and blue. Spiderweb, Motorbreath and Aman, on numerous occasions, wait several minutes to allow me to catch up. I understand their frustration with me and yet, my deep seated karmic need to capture captures will prevent me from giving in.
As we approach Fotu-La, the wind turns vicious. Spiderweb calls for a stop for he must put on his mittens to keep his fingers from giving in. The sun is on its way out. It will be a few hours before it disappears on us and we dare not experience dark in the midst of a climb. Hurry we must. We know we are headed for trouble.
There's more bad news... we've lost Aman for he is outside of our visual horizon. We can only hope we rendezvous with him before the weather turns on us. It is already displaying signs of treachery...
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