We've just finished attacking dinner, a motley of starters and lassi. Nobody seems to be in a hurry to leave. But we must. If ever we have to reach Srinagar as scheduled, or should I say, re-scheduled, we must hit Madhopur tonight, a distance of roughly 150 kms; child's play on any single day, frightening if you consider the fact that we were in Delhi less than 24 hours ago.
We slip into our gear, mount our steeds and rev the throttle. The revs reveal that my tail bag is teetering. I spend some time re-working the bungee chords. Meanwhile, my band of brothers seem to have pulled out. They are well on their way. It takes me 5 minutes to re-fasten the chords, 15 to catch up with them. Sleep is overpowering me; I can barely think. At one juncture, Aman and I take a left only to see Spiderweb signaling us to turn right round and head straight ahead instead. Obstructed by dividers, Aman and I look for a U-turn. I miss one, Aman takes it. I get the second. By the time I reach the junction, they are all out of sight. All I can remember of Spiderweb's directions is head straight. But did he mean head straight instead of taking left or head straight after taking the U-turn. My muddled thinking ponders over the quandary, unsuccessfully at first, and unsuccessfully from thereon. A traffic policeman, sensing my confusing, asks me to pull over but his superior remarks "Tourist hai, jaane do" (He's a tourist, let him go) and gestures asking me to move along. I accept, except, I do not get far for I don't know which way to head. I dial Motorbreath. No response. With battery in the whereabouts of 8%, I wonder if this is going to end in disaster. All I can do is wait for them to notice my absence. Five minutes out, the phone buzzes. It's Motorbreath. I explain where I lost track of them - he explains how to find them assuring me that they await my arrival. Few minutes of riding in a straight line and I see the familiar glow of the Pulsar's tail light.
Spiderweb toys with Google Maps to ensure we're on the right path. Turns out, we are not. A few queries to passerbys, scanty at this time, and we find our way on to the NH-15, a one-lane, two way traffic museum of vehicular display. With dark added to the mix in copious proportions, we are closer to the bat brotherhood than we hoped for. High-beam glares from oncoming traffic kill my desire to see. An occasional approaching monster truck with LEDs reminding one of the Disco era crack me up good. One in particular with LEDs arranged in a circular order on its hood with radiating lighting patterns looks like it has escaped from the sets of Transformers. WICKED is the only word to describe it as it comes chugging down the unlit NH-15.
Not long into the ride, Motorbreath begins to honk furiously. Trouble. We halt as he declares his front tyre to be of the flat assortment and while he was aware of the said issue minutes earlier, he decided to wait until he spotted a mechanic. Sure enough, across from us, a mechanic sits ideally as he contemplates relativity. We are in possession of a puncture kit, all we need the mechanic to do is spot the leak. We hand over the vehicle to his capable hands and rest some more in a dhaba in the vicinity. It doesn't take long, and we resume the journey. The short rest has done us evil, for it has allowed slumber to weave itself deeper into our constitution. I now follow a non-linear path to my steed. Hopefully I'll do better on the tarmac.
As the kilometers fly by, Spiderweb leads the pack. Somewhere down the line though, he begins trailing. The Karizma's headlamps are ebbing which is troubling in a scheme where the slightest error could find you on the hood of an LED inspired motoristic beast. As the NH-15 flows through a settlement, I notice pot-holes, decelerating instinctively. Up ahead, I see Spiderweb hit a pothole at full speed. A thunderous sound ensues as darkness embraces Spiderweb in its uncomfortable embrace. He vanishes from view as if devoured by the Universe.
Worried, I speed up to get to where he was. My headlamps hit his steed, parked along the sidelines. Spiderweb looks grim as the mighty Karizma revs in silence, darkness and despair.
"Fuse?", I ask.
"Yeah", he replies.
This wouldn't be the last time Spiderweb's steed would blow its fuse. Unknown to us, a mis-wiring by the genius in Delhi is creating electrical ripples the fuse cannot handle. He gets off his seat, unhooks it swaps the fuse with a spare and sure enough the head lamps come alive, a ritual that will be repeated several times over as we navigate the NH-One-Five.
We've lost Aman and Motorbreath to speed once more. A 15 minute wait takes a lot longer to compensate for. Spiderweb pushes the throttle to its extreme. Its easier to maintain high speeds with two as opposed to four. I can only assume that the two before have achieved similar results. Spiderweb and I tail fast cars relying on them to shed more light on our path. It works as we cover ground quickly.
As we approach another settlement, we find the duo, parked to the side, signaling us to stop. Motorbreath is irate as he informs us that a couple of local bikers with pillion antagonized our two by cutting them off time and again, preventing them from over-taking them and barricading them against the sidelines in a startling display of brain deficient bravado all at high speeds. Slowing down did not get rid of them. Given the riding conditions, coupled with our fatigue, the locals had willingly put themselves and our mates in jeopardy. The only logical thing to do then was to find a safe settlement and stop, which is exactly what the duo did.
Aman's situation is worse than the collective, for he has had a sum total of 30 minutes of sleep on a chair in the past 48 hours. It is now his turn to trail. I stick with him, often times trying to lead in tricky overtakes for I worry about his conscious state, which judging by mine, would be frighteningly close to the un-conscious. When his headlamps turn to two, I slow down only to realize that a lone rider, separate from us, is following our lead as a safety measure. We let him. We lose him when Spiderweb halts to devour roadside kulfi and we follow suit. If you haven't already guessed, Spiderweb has a kulfi fetish. He could be on the precipice of an invention that could change the course of human history one day, but the mere sight of kulfi would be reason enough for him to abandon such a course, or at least break for two large helpings.
Weariness has completely over-shadowed our senses, destroyed our spirit. We decide to call it a night, regardless of current geographical bearing. All we need is shelter. We will realize soon that finding a sanctuary will itself pose many problems as over-populated lodges deny us room. Many moments later, we stop outside a flamboyant lodge. I've lost the ride in me, for I cannot ride no more. It is my resolve to pass out in the sprawling garden, should they refuse us accommodation. Fortunately, they grant us space.
I'm dismayed to learn that hunger will fight tooth and nail with slumber to gain my attention. We must eat. Dismay turns to horror as we are told that food will not be delivered to the room - we will have to haul ourselves to the adjacent hotel. Lack of options often lead to brave strides. We make it to the restaurant in one piece.
15 minutes out, I open my eyes to smiling faces as I realize, quite embarrassingly, that I've fallen asleep with a spoon held up to my face. All I have to return is a weary smile myself. We decide to call it a night. As I drift off into deep sleep, Aman's voice echoes in my auditory canal as he updates his loved ones "We are in Madhopur"...
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