The longest ride

A life cannot be reduced to words, but we still do it because we are yet to find ways to keep our dear ones from dying. Memories penned down become something else altogether but we keep at it whether it is love, loyalty or a sense of legacy. 

Soon after I got the news I started on my motorcycle. Those who gave me the news as well as those who were privy to it when I got it – I was on a work call with colleagues from two different time zones – told me to take the car or hire a cab. But I had to ride. The wind, the heat and humidity, unhindered views, the vast expanse that you take with you giving you a sense of belonging yet floating in space, the almost-hypnotic thrumming of the engine and searing at throttle, the close contact with terrain, all makes you think that things will get better. It probably does.

The distance from Kochi where I live and work to my hometown Pala is 70 kilometres. The roads are narrow and winding, indulgently tracing borders of privately held rubber estates segueing into other estates. And there are the hills and many rivers to be circumvented or crossed over. I usually take 75 minutes to cover the distance on my motorcycle. The fastest I have done this was 70 minutes when somebody close was waiting. That was a ride fuelled by febrility – love was in the air, and it was problematic.

The deliverer of the news only hinted at the nature as if hoping to keep apocalypse at bay. You even marvel at the discreetness, sensitiveness even, of the usually rhapsodist relation. Well, that is how you take it too. You don’t let it sink in but permit it to flutter around a bit, fester bilious acid, hoping it will fizzle away. It is not going anywhere, and you know it.

It was 10PM.

***

Our car was parked by the side of the Bangalore highway, perpendicularly, like a cop car keeping an eye on the road. I don’t know why I did it that way maybe I was fitting the car within the meagre shadow of the tree. Dad had reclined his chair and was munching away on the bread butter jam sandwiches I packed that morning when we left from Pala. I told him about the same breakfast he would pack when we were in Nigeria – bundling us kids, groaning bedsheets, into the backseat of the car. We would stop by the roadside, eat with eyes partially shut and go to sleep again.

Dad nodded off too soon afterwards.

***

Somewhat like Robert Pirsig says in ‘Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance’ I find God when I clutch the handlebars, going fast. Not that I am an avid believer or seeker. Mine is a mind that holds still only when I am on the move. I am pathologically perambulatory. And preferably on my motorcycle.

There were two reels playing – one across my eyes and the other through my mind. I looked up at the sliver of moonlight that shredded the cerulean canopy of branches towering from both sides of the road. The road continued like afterthoughts to extempore speeches. I thought of people, there was this chap on a motorcycle next to mine at Vytilla Junction waiting for the signal who said my tappet was a bit noisier than usual. He said he was a mechanic, and I must get it checked. I asked where his garage was.

‘Any workshop can fix it for you.’

***

My folks came to see me in Delhi where I lived for 17 years and I took them to many places – Agra, Chambal, to Dharamshala and the GHNP. It was the road trip of a lifetime. We slid over hailstorms, stole apples from trees, shared tales, plucked sunflowers, ate from dhabas and fought over my crumbling marriage. Now we were at the Chokhi Dhani, the miniature Rajasthan in Jaipur; to be safe when I take others around, I stick to the real touristy gigs. I bought a small dhol, a traditional percussion instrument, and began drumming, thudding squalls. It is Rajasthan and everyone and his camel dances here. But it was the first time I saw my dad dance. He danced with an abandon, oblivious to the world, like Zorba, before he became breathless. My mom was red-faced, but she was also struggling to hide her grin.

***

The floodplains reminded me about the smoke breaks I would have taken on any other day. Throw in a selfie or two with my motorcycle. But there would be people hanging around the house and I knew that they were waiting for me. Counting on me to do the needful, be the new shoulders, real emotions suppressed. It is superhuman how the body can function – and that too with focus – when the mind is scattered like divots on a golf course. And there is the engine that tries to calm you, sends you into a trance, making your mind tranquil like when you are standing by the ocean, or sitting by the window of a long-haul train. When things fall apart, some things hold together whatever is left, including of you.

***

I must have been not more than seven when my dad sat me on his lap and made me hold the steering wheel for the first time in my life. Besides the tingling excitement, I also remember driving over the roundabout and dad coolly manoeuvring us back. He became my hero then and nothing would change that.

Years later when I had my first accident, he told me to leave the car wherever it was and take the bus home. He sat in the towing vehicle, took it to the mechanic, and not a word was uttered about the accident. Ever.

***

We have heard of a lot of good people fleeing persecution and general hopelessness. Moses, Mohammed and all modern-day refugees. I felt strange as I was fleeing the other way.

Although I performed academically, I was a hellion, was awarded suspensions and other forms of punishments from most of my places of study. But my dad stood by me. I broke his many dreams but he never gave up on me. Never the sententious, the only insistence was I behaved with my sisters. I was the prodigal and a louche, but always absolved by the title ‘Son of Jose Sir.’

I flew past roadside houses clothed in silhouette, banked little buttes with frog songs coming out of them, quietly overtook road-hugging oil tankers from the left, ‘wait for side’ is a myth, I tell you again. Beyond my ken was how I was doing it like I did always, even taking the right turns at intersections entering new roads. As I neared home it began to dawn on me what would be in store. Following the idea by Isaac Singer on happiness, I decided to act courageous though I was certain courage wasn’t going to come any time soon.

***

The last drive I took with dad was just two days before when I took him to see the college where he taught for nearly four decades. He had now begun swimming in the Lethe, taking time to remember things. But a refrain was ‘has he come?’ directed at anyone around. From the window of the car he pointed correctly at his department office on the first floor. He spoke at length of his past colleagues. Would he like to meet some now? He said we could later as he was too tired from all the exertions.

***

Feeling carved out and empty, I reached my hometown. I sincerely wished for some earthmoving alcohol. Skimming the clear periphery of a fuggy mind, I parked my motorcycle away from the house. The driveway was full of cars, we needed to make space for the ambulance. On my way in, I looked around at those who had gathered, acknowledged their efforts and presence at this odd hour. My good friends stood away unsure of what to do; those I barely knew jostled to hold my hand and tell me the news. I smiled at everybody. It was 11PM and five minutes. 

At 65 minutes the longest became the fastest too.