The story of a pillion ride

I've always had a fascination for Bullets. They're stately, they have a certain air -- they reek of confidence, bravado even; they're masculine, they have an old-world charisma that newfangled big bad super-bikes can never hope to achieve. Most importantly, Royal Enfield Bullets (the older ones anyway) produce the most melodic of thumps. I don't know how to ride motorbikes, but I've always wanted to at least ride pillion on a Bullet.

Finally, a few days ago, I got my wish (or daydream, rather). A friend invited me over to visit, so off I went, for a mini-vacation in the middle of my three-week idyll away from my day job. He had recently got hold of an old Bullet. We revisited old haunts and discovered how they still held a special place in our hearts. And of course, since we had access to the only genuine Indian touring motorcycle, we had to go on a ride.

We planned to go to Digha, a little sea-side place in West Bengal. It was a 105 kilometres away, and we took three and a half hours to cover the distance. We didn't want to go too fast, you see. The ride was more important than the destination, and the feel of the ride more important than the speed. There's nothing better than sitting on the pillion of such a bike, with a good friend. The landscape unfolds on either side, the dust of the town is blown away by the clean air of the countryside, and both of you lapse into a comfortable silence, unbroken except for an occasional comment or exclamation. Talking seems irrelevant here, maybe even a little irreverent.

The rice fields were a green carpet, with a few lotus ponds here and there. Bengal is truly beautiful in the monsoons, especially when the sun comes out for a day or two in the middle and it's as if everything is newly minted. The leaves are at their greenest, the air is washed clean of floating dust, the ducks swim in their usual ponds, and the cows and calves wander onto the roads once more.

Talking seemed irrelevant and irreverent here.

It was almost mid-day by the time we reached Digha, with the sun beating down on us. The sea was breathtaking, as usual. The beach is separated from the town by a promenade. Nothing very fancy, but it serves to keep the beach area relatively free from the noise and bustle of the main roads. The result is that the sound of the sea is not drowned out by vehicles. The sea can really speak to you here, if you only sit and listen.

I felt at peace there, with the sea stretching out into the horizon, the waves breaking on the shore, and the only other people little dots where the surf met the sand. All the fatigue and heat seemed beside the point. We were there, with the Bullet in the foreground, and the sand and the sea beyond. We'd have to leave early the next day, but that was beside the point. The journey had led to a destination. Going back would be another journey to look forward to, another ride.

The "Bull"