[Hippie at Heart]

This was written pre internet days more as a jot down for some project, so excuse the incoherent thoughts and a pen that jumps all over.

ARE YOU MAD? Was the initial response from a friend with whom I was happen to discuss about a proposed motorbike tour to northeast. Now I think he was more appalled at the idea of going on a bike then touring northeast.

The urbanised city with endless array of unpoetic block of flats trapped with stale and reeking air is what gets me edgy, if nothing else, living in the city for too long. Attempt to get out of the confines of home, garden and fence seems more in tune with a direct and inverse wish to get back to source of life and nature. But why motor by a bike? Unless one is a stickler for comforts of car and swanky resorts to drive in, there is nothing to put down a bike ride, it induces a sense of connecting to the weather around, people, life and more importantly have you ever seen a bike rider being looked down upon whenever he is stuck unlike some car cruising bourgeois halted in tracks with engine problem! There are more people on road to help a bike rider then probably for a car cruiser. At least am not going to ridicule heights of travelling by a camel or an elephant just because I want to experience that stale 'timeless' exotic aura of India that many foreign travel writers dish for the foreign audience and chatter at page 3 parties.

I suppose the phrase 'taking your life in your own hands' is exactly what riding a motorbike involves. I know bikes have a reputation of being moody mistresses but I firmly believe this is so untrue. No mistress will ever throw you out of house unless you punch her for no reason and mistreat her, ditto for a bike you are riding, you treat her well and with respect, she will take you to places. It is not easy ride either, when sometime driving for continuous 5-6 hours; you get down with shaking knees and your butt sleeping for eternity. Not to forget that weight-lifting leather belt you wore to prevent kidney rattle and innards wobble! Your hands feeling like lump of ice with no sensation in them and toes are burning with accidental touching the exhaust pipe! Add for good measure an occasional toss to the slimy water ditch because of the oncoming bus or truck is being driven by some lout. But far outweighing these perils, one gets to be in perfect tune with his bike. What better ecstasy there can be then entering a well laid corner on a well-tuned engine? You are going on an ethereal tangent while world slips past in perfect unison and you are a part of the whole cosmos realising the curve of eternity. Biking is next best thing to sex, I read somewhere and I couldn’t agree more.

After newspapers throwing them self over board about declaring north east as disturbed area I finally manage to brush past it as mare hype. Two days later I knew I was right! Planning a trip and actually going thru the frustrations of conducting it are two different thing, and this frustration can start right away with Indian Railway which is bent upon either not allowing you to take your bike with you or else insist upon putting it on a train that's going in opposite direction. Then there were absurd instructions to be followed about 'packing' the bike for brake-van. Nearly two days of endless journey cooped up in train were not any good start. In spite of the good natured attempt of co-passenger who without asking me helped them self off my newspaper, water bottle, cigarettes, sleeping birth, and unending enquires about my marital status, extra marital affair if any, my source of income, siblings and their marital status, my girl freinds and their marital status right down to how come I earn 200% times less the my boss. I was restless and edgy to get going and refuse to join the mindless babble and mayhem that was ensued right the minute train pulled on the platform.

The train across Gangetic plains and cow belt of UP and Bihar was endlessly repetitive and oppressive in the summer heat. Looking out of widow seeing scantily clad woman and labour bent upon working fields it was hard to imagine this strach of land was once famous for the riches of past and so opulent were the times and soil that you barely had to scratch the land and it yielded bumper crops and abundance. This fact is even more glaring when you realize this area is by and large still dependent on monsoons and there are 16 major and minor rivers flowing between New Delhi and Patna railway station. Yet the poverty is omnipresent just like those fake promises our esteemed leaders make at political rallies about joining Indian rivers as one big evenly drained catchment. This is perhaps one of the most glaring fraud played upon Indian masses and least reported as well.

Getting down on New Jalpaiguri station is as good as getting off right on a shopping mall of miniature scale. But the goods are all Chinese cheap cameras, tiger balm, torches to beauty creams and aphrodiacs. It's a smugglers den since the Chinese empire border lies but barely 34 Kms away. Walk to the brake-van was like walking thru a veritable battleground with whole air dank and reeking of stench smell. I had obviously underestimated the Bengali's love for fish and their naivette that all those catches are coming from either sea or local ponds. The stench was highly impressive for occasional fish lover in me. After much toiling around the ooze and muck I manage to get 'sprinty' out with an empty petrol tank since they won’t allow any petrol in the tank at loading time. I was not sure how far will be the petrol pump from station. So bought coke bottleful petrol from the auto rickshaw driver at a murder price. Finally throwing leg over sprinty and cocking the clutch I was on my trip. Tearing down the road throwing the Pirsig purist and the 'Zen and art of motorcycle maintenance' to the winds I knew I immediately earned a nickname of tearaway jerk from whosoever was watching me at that moment. What does Persig know about driving on Indian roads anyway! There is no mention in his book about that Black cow you can’t see in night sleeping peacefully in the middle of the road or ruminating about deeper subjects of life in daytime. In the passing it’s worth mentioning that Indian cows 'do' have panache for sitting bang in middle of the road. He tells you only how to go fast and faster on a immaculately tuned bike while on Indian roads you need to learn how to drive slowly, carefully and how patience is a virtue on roads. Sometime we are all allowed some oddity in us and tearing down the road on a spur of moment for few seconds is one of mine.

A word of advice on what to carry if anyone cares to listen! If travelling in hills always carry a pair of your spare woollen or summer clothing handy because weather can change in matter of minutes and hills may rise of dip so that you might suffer a heat stroke or be getting your nuts numb before you knew! Running stomach is what you should fear more after a punctured tyre and nothing a great stabilizer of innards then Isabgol with curd and a big tube of Betnovate to see thru all kind of bruises and nappy rashes! A good quality all weather ground mattresses that can help you pass out even in most grotty surroundings. You wont need anything more then that since there are more motor mechanics on roads then there are sign posts and Indian mechanics are never bothered about being specialist to car or two wheelers, you can get anything fixed just about anywhere. Few months ago a friend was telling about some trip he had organized for a British, travelling thru the Himachal Pradesh. The Britisher wished to be carried around like a Raja followed by a whole entourage of mules, backpack, servants and 'janankhana'. Compared to that, my portmanteau looked a tad-jaded of 12 Kilos at most. Clothing should be kept minimal and if one can done a pair of Kurta Pyjamas nothing to beat it in comfort since they have already achieved the pinnacle in the area of design improvements. My favourite is a loose kurta with 'Ram Ram' printed all over it. It serves like a business card whenever you halt around the god fearing Indian masses, you are always offered some refreshment and place to stay while they wont take you for anything more then some crazy upstart on his way to attain Nirvana or if you bump into a bunch of tree hugging Hippies you are accepted as one of them and be updated to perils or sights ahead to almost 200 Kms.

Drive out of Siliguri heading straight for the Darjeeling the green cover around the road was almost redundant. But as I gained height vegetation changed an soon I was cruising down the famous patch of the road which was filmed on Rajesh Khanna and Shermila Tagore immortalizing the call for a mate "mere Sapno Ki Rani Kab Aayegi
Tu', I couldn't but help wondering why till this date the golden and melodious era is 60s is still unbeatable and why the cackling cacophony of today's music is not rejected by sensible listeners. The railways line runs alongside the road for good parts but sometime to find easy gradient it cuts thru the road on unmanned barriers. It wasn't amusing a thought to realize you are headlong running into a chugging train engine because of the mist you can’t see around as clearly. On the same track saw a little toy train making halt for water with more people travelling on the engine then there were inside the coaches!

On way to Darjeeling the world famous Darjeeling tea plantations were abound while the bushes looked singularly unimpressive settled rows upon rows. The bungalows looked very opulent and relics of British Raj. 1st May had gone by again few weeks ago and failed to touch the plantation as usual. Later the town traffic had all the trappings of mayhem and melee confirming my views that traffic rules are somewhat only made to obey in national metros. Strangely there were not many 'Welcome to Gorkhaland' banners around there perhaps China had cut down the finance aid to the activists. After rejecting govt run tourist hotels that usually deserve praise I checked in a small private establishment and crashed out for some sleep, woke up ravenously hungry and shift great mounds of rice and dal. Like any other hill station Darjeeling is a walker’s paradise in moment of sanity or where there was less traffic. Next day I walked leisurely in mist and picked my way to the Mall Road and realized there were more bookshops then an average Indian hill station would have. The out bound city roads have some very picture pretty neat and well maintained old bungalows but no one ever seemed to live there. By and large it seemed like a run down British hill station with more enterprising Nepalese settled there then there were locals, the still simmering problem of Gorkhaland. Drive down to siliguri was eventless except sprinty decided to be little wayward with strong winds leashing across her.

Since the mandarins in Delhi had decided to turn down my request to travel inside the inner line of control near china border in Arunanchal Predesh I decided to go to Assam and complete this leg of journey just as now. Any train journey in India can otherwise be such an engrossing affair that one can write as much about them as there is ink in pen but overlooking such details I had my mind fixed on Assam. Except looking outside the window for gentle green rolling hills and a social drink with a soldier I don't remember much of the journey. It's illegal to drink in a running train unless you are travelling by Orient express. Infect they will insist on serving you the best Dom Parignon (not as best that money elsewhere can buy though) But you cannot slur the Indian Railways by travelling in a non air-conditioned 2nd class carriage and consume horse hooch with a solider. It is illegal I pointed that to him. He frown his face in a bitter scowl and muttered something as he poured a Rum tote for me in his regulation chipped enamelled mug. He observed that the authorities will allow liquor only in a pantry car meant for rich and whole governing process of the country is a hocus pocus. I couldn't agree with him more. He was no ordinary Johnny going home on a yearly vacation. Bottled up with the apathy, Muslims in armed forces face; he spoke very bitterly how they are mistrusted. His past three generations have served in army and it is a family tradition till date but why should there be no separate regiments for Muslims even after almost 50 years of independence? I meekly suggested there isn't any for Buddhist and Christians as well and there is none for Muslims as well, more for the reasons of governance then racism. With 4 big patiala pegs down and personal ideas buzzing in his head he was gone already.

Invoking names of all gods, past and present he offered to make one unified army of Indian Muslims and open the Pakistan border and watch them slaying Pakistan army like potato chips and carrot slice, while he continued to link their linage to that of pigs he solemnly confirmed all Indian Muslims can change the entire race of Pakistan in flat 9 months and teach them a lesson never to do kargil again and he also included some of his own Muslims brothers living in India as kafirs and potential treacherous, Imam of Delhi's Jama Masjid draw the most flack, "how can an imam, who's duty is only to conduct prayers in a mosque can issue fatwas and tell uneducated Muslims what is right or wrong for them, fatwa can only be issued by the scholars of Islam and not by some pro Pakistan swindler" Overlooking the slight of army governance and national jingoism I couldn't help but felt awed at his rock solid believe and sense of patriotism. Elsewhere graffiti world was alive, in toilet, very oddly Sita was proclaiming she is the raunchiest siren of Guwahati and undisputed Queen of fornication, she even left the contact no to prove her credibility as one. Guwahti is no Delhi or Bombay but this is not some two horse rag-tag town either, watch out Las Vegas!

Touch down at railway station was more placid and customer friendly, full of happy smiling people and railway staff. Can’t say if it was because this was termination point of train or the people here were just as easy going. A quick ride to friends home, hot bath and piping hot dinner was all I could have asked for and crashed out for the day. Tomorrow we are going to try and decode the Assam vibes that never reach Delhi. Somewhere deep inside this apparent peace lurk the seething anger of assamese people who otherwise live with their surroundings as one. Hard working people, productive land, and a rich cultural heritage to fall back upon as life prop. Then what seems to be going wrong that many took up arms and came to be called militants in their own home?