Of Zen and starry skies - Part II

This is part 2 of the series. You can read the earlier part here.

Phuentsholing is a small border town on the Bhutan side of India, while the Indian side of India calls it Jaigaon (Apparently, India ‘phunds’ 2/3^rd of Bhutan’s annual budget). Phuentsholing is pronounced as Phun-Show-Ling by tourists and Phun-sleing by the natives – it requires heavy practice. The practice sessions starts every morning at 5, requiring you to take a dip in the swimming pool and breathing out the word underwater. Be warned that the chances of you drowning are more than you ever getting it right. The road leading from Jaigaon is plundered by potholes to meet a grand border structure beyond which it looks like the Middle Zealand of The Lego movie with happy people. You may even start humming “Everythiinngg is awesome!” automatically (especially if you have crossed over from a town in India). The only difference between Middle Zealand and Bhutan is that, in the latter, the happy people are real! Construct a similar smooth road in India, there are likely to be more cases against which Salman Khan will be, obviously, acquitted.

Phuentsholing is a small town with a couple of straight roads, equal numbered smiling Bhutanese and polite, down-to-earth and decent behaving Indians. The latter are likely to be loud and boisterous raccoons if you put them on the other side of the border. The Phuensholing Bhutanese are easily distinguishable. They are the lovey-dovey pink-cheeked people who can speak a little bit of Hindi (of course, better Hindi from Tamil people) and words-strung-into-sentences-English (the competition here, with our Tamil people, couldn’t even hold a candle!) and can be extremely courteous. They can be so courteous that the British would be put to shame for their courtesy.

It took us a bit of lazy, aimless walking to find a place to crash. But for 700 bucks, we found an amazing place overlooking the Permit Office. We were time-travelling by half hour between India and Bhutan and every time we entered Bhutan, we got out pockets checked for cigarettes. Bhutanese cannot carry-in any tobacco products and any foreigner (we forgot that we were foreigners too) has to pay 100% duty on the value. A maximum of 5 packets of cigarettes are allowed. Public smoking is banned (like, really banned, no way around the law) and if caught with cigarettes without the duty receipt, cleaning tables in the drive-away restaurant might be the most sought after career option.

The Royal Army (Dantak) of Bhutan welcomes you

Prashant and I were under the assumption that momos are a delicacy here (apologies for being racist), but the ground realities were different. There WERE momos alright! And they came in two types – cheese and beef momos. The cheese momos may be made with yak milk cheese, sure you wanna try? When it comes to food in Phuentsholing, almost everything you order is make to order – meaning fresh, soft, supple and edible. We had an Indian dinner (the last one for a very long time) and the prices were comparable to Jaigaon’s. So we paid in INR. Phuentsholing is the only place in Bhutan where our 500 Rs. notes would be accepted. Due to high instances of counterfeit notes, transaction in 500 Rs. notes were banned. Not like the cigarette ban, the transaction would be at the Bhutanese’s risk. So, it was time to convert our 500s to 100s and it became a huge burden to carry them. With almost no ATMs and no card swiping services, Bhutan makes up for the lack of technological development with evolved social traits of honesty, sincerity and low (almost nil) theft and crime rates.

In the streets of Phuentsholing

Good morning Bhutan, it was 11^th of December 2012. Ten days before the world was prophesied to come to an end (Remember 21^st December 2012?). If I were to die, I thought, I will die in the happiest country in the world. With a copy of our driving license/voter’s identity card/passport, we were the second in line that was waiting outside the Permit Office, at 8 a.m. The office opened at 9. We submitted our documents, got our photos clicked and left for breakfast. As we were leaving, there was an exodus of Indians (mostly migrant labours) waiting for their photographs to be clicked. Almost all the laborious work for developmental activities is carried out by Indians, while the masters are also Indian contractors under the contractual employment of the Bhutanese government. We came back after an hour to get our permits and I was left greatly disappointed that my passport still remained a virgin. No stamping on the precious Indian passports - Bhutan’s policy - in exchange for preferential treatment in terms of zero processing/visa fees, freedom to roam around without a guide with the exception of the birth right of every Indian to spit anywhere.

Packing our backs in no time, we reached the local bus stand and waited to embark on our journey - a journey into one of the most beautiful cities ensconced by mountains and a river after which the city was named – Paro.

Posted on 11:53 by Tippu Sultan in Bhutan, Travelogue, trip | No comments

Of Zen and starry skies - Part I

This wasn’t the usual Coromandel Express ride: the one that starts at 9:05 sharp and makes you smell mustard oil all the way. This one was minus the friends; one that makes you think that that the true essence of life is to be busy; one which brings out the realization that everyone has something worthwhile to do in life that being on a 26 hour train journey is the last of their things to do. With a mind full of hope of getting my passport finally stamped, I boarded the Coromandel Express which started at 8:45 a.m., again, sharp.

The Calcutta Chromosome is a good train read. Although it had a few bits and pieces of a futuristic Calcutta, it wasn’t too different from the present day city. Only a few cities have that charm to not let time take over and Calcutta will be at the pole position, every single one of those times. She is a city that has all that the future holds, and yet can coexists with the past simultaneously. 
A simple example would be the transportation system in Calcutta. Get down at Howrah -> take a ferry to Babu Ghat -> walk around the old British architecture buildings, whiling away time with a Kachori and cha around the court corners -> hop on a tram -> get down at Esplanade -> take a metro to Park Street -> have nimbupani -> come back in a bus to Madras Café -> have a tummy-filling South Indian meal -> head back to Babu Ghat. Whaddya know - it’s already dark! For anyone not from East, the sky becoming pitch dark at 5:30 is a phenomenon, but that’s how our IST standardization works. Welcome to Calcutta – the futuristic city of the ‘60s!

My train to New Jalpaiguri (it took me some Bangla training to get the pronunciation right. So let’s just call it NJP) was at 5:30 p.m. It’s the December cold that makes the matki-cha wala, a millionaire (in paisa terms) on the platform. Burdwan (or Bardhamman or Vardhamman) invoked the Bengali in me, but it was after office hours and it wasn’t difficult for me to put him on the “Hobe Na” mode. One gets to meet interesting characters in a train journey and the most common thing amongst them is the level of distrust their eyes convey. “So, you are travelling alone eh? I despise you! And don’t think you can steal my kid!” Perceptions change when you take out a withered copy of 1984. Then they trust you like how they would trust a condom. “I trust you, but I pray that you don’t tear up that trust and prove to be a rogue”. Tell them that you are a pseudo-intellectual from NIT-IIT, and you are already family. No one pays any heed to that pseudo-intellectuality though. Brand plays and pays for the free luchi puris that you just shared.

The only good photo I took on the trip

Kamrup Express was on time and NJP was cold. Cold to the extent that the juvenile pleasure of smoking without even lighting a cigarette was possible. I waited and waited for a train from Delhi which was already 4 hours late. Prashant finally made it to the NJP station at around 9 and soon after, we went searching for shared autos to the Siliguri bus stand. The last bus to Jaigaon was about to leave at 11:20 a.m. and we were lucky enough to get seats on the overcrowded bus. Taking the hilly terrain into consideration, a journey of approximately 150 km would take us about 5 hours. The hopes of seeing the sun setting in India looked glim, but the excitement of being in a different country for another 10 days kept my spirits up!

Photo by Prashant Arora

It was 6:30. The sun had set 2 hours ago. And we were still travelling. Google Maps put us at least 20 km away from the destination. At 7:30 we disembarked the bus. The pressure in the groin pushed us straight in the direction of the nearest toilet. If one has to describe that out-of-the-world feeling, you could say we accelerated faster than gravity. How do we know that? From the relief one gets after withstanding this torture for more than 3 hours. This relief could be called as closest to that of a cluttered mind attaining Zen.

Photo by Prashant Arora

With broken Bengali, we found our way to the border. We paid the share-auto-guy in Rupees and he returned the change in Ngultrums. Our first ‘phoreign’ currency exchange! With much fascination, we crossed the border. Wait, wait! Hold on for a minute now. I had to take a step back and peer into India before moving forward. Oh my Gawd! What is this place? Is this how Bangladeshis feel, when they step into India? Serene, clean, orderly, lesser people and smiling ones too (bloody they even use indicators to take a turn). Welcome to Bhutan – the land of the thunder-dragon and I hope you are not carrying any cigarettes!

Photo by Prashant Arora

Posted on 10:40 by Tippu Sultan in Kolkata, Travelogue, Zen | No comments

While I Took a Sabbatical

The closest I had gotten to North India during the first 17 years of my life was to Tirupathi, a mere 150 km north of Chennai. My first trip to North India, rather East India was my trip to Calcutta for obvious reasons, close to my 17^th birthday. Travelling is fun I thought. Exploring new places was exhilarating. Experimenting with unknown places was adventurous. Then came the biggest twist in my life – The Motorcycle Diaries. Being an Indian, it gives you the birthright to copy the onscreen actions in real life. Actions like tapping a cigarette from your palm and holding it with your lips or humming, “Tujhe dekha to yeh jaana saname”, with outstretched arms or “Arey saala” depicting the angry young man. But, my choice was different. I wanted to travel on a bike. Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara inspired me to explore places.

The movie got over. I came out of my room enthusiastic and told me best friend next door that I wanted to ride a bike to explore places. The best advice that was offered was to participate in Roadies. Arrghh! Someone understand me. I want to travel the world on my bike. Nothing against Roadies, but it was just a misnomer for a soap serial with biking as a small part, since the then Hero Honda wanted to promote their Karizma. Days passed, with that the years too.

Then happened Royal Enfield in my life. Perceptions changed, life turned on its head. Every weekend (mine used to be a Thursday), I explored a new place. With a bettering technology, Maps were reduced from big sheets to apps. Rising up early (it used to be the day continuing the night shift) had a new meaning. The dawn breaks, and you are already on the road with a cold breeze finding its way through the gaps in the helmet to caress your ears to give Goosebumps. Speed was never a deterrent and the roadside tea shops became your adda. Early in the morning, when you see the shy sun combating its way through the milky white clouds, you look into the horizon and the mind goes blank. You may be driving at 90kmph, but everything around you moves so slowly. The road ahead leads to oblivion and you don’t think about the past or the future, when the present is so pleasurable. It’s a new high and you are brought back to your senses by the potholes and the loud trucks.

During the journey things may not go your way and it calls for adjustments. Adjustments that you would hate to do, but have to do inorder to survive. The journey is long that you may either choose to give up or push yourself to get past the hurdle so that you get enjoy what lays ahead. Biking is no easy, but in the words of Mr. Venki Padmanabhan, CEO of Royal Enfield, “The Odyssey transforms a child into a boy, a boy into a man, a man into a sage and a sage into a child.” It teaches the essentials of life like endurance, sportsmanship and ownership.

You learn to endure tough situations like driving through barren land and surviving without water on a hot summer day. When the first drop of water touches the lips, you will value life. Tough situations like beating the bitter cold – when the hot chai enters your esophagus, you can trace it to your stomach. You bike with likeminded people with a zeal of sportsmanship. You may be competitors on speed to assess who reaches the next checkpoint first, but the sportsmanship of helping out a fellow biker takes priority over everything. Ownership of your bike, the most prized possession and also your life gives you a sense of belonging. At the end of it, it’s not the thrill, but the humaneness in you is rekindled when you bike to travel and explore places. You appreciate nature which is at its best behavior always.

Biking gave me a new identity. Although I am not even close to what I set to achieve, I appreciate the journey. Whenever I say that I am going to travel on a holiday, the first question is stumble upon is, “On your bike is it?” As a biker, it leaves you an everlasting good feeling about yourself, because at the end of everything, at the top, you will be that lonely biker wading your way through to achieve what you set out to.

“The first commandment for every good explorer is: An expedition has two points, the point of departure and the point of arrival. If your intention is to make the second theoretical point coincide with the actual point of arrival, don’t think about the means – because the journey is a virtual space that finishes when it finishes, and there are so many means as there are different ways of “finishing”. That is to say, the means are endless.” – Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara in The Motorcycle Diaries

Posted on 13:39 by Tippu Sultan in bike, India, liberty, Motorcycle, Travelogue | No comments

Closer to Reality - Gwalior Fort

So, I reach the station, cross over the flyover, take the right before DD mall and wriggle through the narrow road to reach the entrance of Gujari Mahal - the rear entrance to Gwalior fort. Thank you Google Maps. It seemed like a perfect evening plan for a Sunday!

I asked the security guard at the base of Gujari Mahal where I could park the borrowed Activa. Prompt was the reply - I could take it up right into the fort.  It was steepest of many climbs and with a 110cc autogear scooter, I couldn’t expect the ride to be of much finesse. One of many times when I thoroughly missed my Thunderbird! I rode up, up, in the air to reach yet another entrance of the fort. That’s where I decided to park the bike and take a walk for the rest of the distance. The non-existent parking lot was almost empty with just one another bike. Sunday evening and I had the fort all to myself? Wah! Craning my neck in awkward angles to look through the narrow doorway, the BGM of Om Shanti Om started. Flurry images started passing through my mind! Who were these people in the grand kingdom setup? Real disturbing images of pseudo-reality. Cut back to reality, the narrow doorway was just an orifice when compared to the magnificent big door that separated the fort from the rest of the world. It was one of those grand doors which would need zillions of horsepower to operate on a daily basis. I stepped inside the fort only to find more motorcycles. And notorious that I was with my luck in such cases, there was a motorcyclist approaching me. There were only seconds left to avoid a clash. Thanks to my reflex, I could avoid a head –on collision; although I did expect him to crash into the grand door.  But agility, kraft (sorry, craft) and practice made him exit the fort through that orifice, almost effortlessly. The very same orifice which I struggled through. Gwalior never stopped to amaze me!

I climbed the steep road to the Museum, got a ticket and ventured in. Frankly speaking, there was nothing interesting in there. The museum usher learnt that I had parked my bike outside the grand entrance doorway. He gave me looks that I deciphered to be - “What do you take this place to be that you left your bike outside for the world to see?? Bring it in you moron!” . He had won the non-existent argument. I climbed down and with a few beggars help,..ta da! I brought my bike inside and headed for the fort. Without much ado, I parked my bike at a makeshift parking lot and entered Tomar palace. Explored! Clicked random pictures! Took unknown stairs! And found myself in dungeons with no light only to hear bats squeaking. Scary enough! Took unknown stairs again, with little light from the mobile; this time to hear someone moaning at the end of the tunnel. Oops! Wrong tunnel. A couple in search of some privacy landed in the dungeon only to be disturbed by the sound of footsteps and the light from my mobile. Sorry guys, no voyeuristic intentions meant. Please continue! Retraced my steps a little, and then there was light! There was an end to the tunnel.. Phew, that was close!

I came out of the Tomar palace to find my way into a library of Mahals – Karan Palace, Jahangir Mahal and Shah Jahan Mahal.  Was it under renovation or was it that badly maintained, one should ask. Again the disturbing images of Jahangir and Shah Jahan approaching me passed me through. The ticket vendor brought me back to reality. After paying ten bucks, I was let inside a bigger than usual gate. Once in, no one stopped me ever, no frisking, no checking of bags – you are just out in the open of wild architectural wonders. Then it dawned on me – No one cares! I went to the West end. The sun was blazing down even at 4 in the evening. I figured that the east side should be wonderful then. I roamed around and finally found myself a spot overseeing the entire Gwalior city. When you have found that one spot of perfect light for quiet and tranquility, there was only one thing to do – read. So I took out my book and spent close to half an hour reading. At around 5, I roamed around and found the best place to spend the evening. The top of East Tower of Jahangir Mahal, atop the minaret. Wow! View of entire Gwalior was breath taking. I must accede that the kings had taste. They definitely knew how to live and it must have been a life worth dying for! What a way to spend your evening.  To stare into the horizon and feel nothing; every evening! All philosophical concepts of how to keep oneself at zero entropy state came to mind. There is nothing that I could think of than take in the view and beauty of it. Listening to Vellai Pookal by ARR took me to an altogether different plane of bliss, melancholy and solitude!  I forgot where I was, who I was.

The sun started to set at around 6:30. It probably was time to leave. Things were starting to get a little spookier too. I kept hearing thuds and taps in rhythm. When I walked out, there was no one else to be seen. Five minutes later, I reached the entrance and found the gate locked. What the….. ! I called the security guard and he asks me if I had fallen asleep. I said I was ‘all philo and forgot about myself’ which made him suspicious. He started walking towards me, when I muttered, “yes boss, I had fallen asleep. Now please help me out?” He asked me to go inside and search for labourers who may have the key to the locked gate. I nodded, darting in again. Inside looked spookier with twilight setting in. I heard someone call my name. Who in the fort could know my name! When I turned back, obviously there was no one. I searched for the labourers, but no luck. It took a few moments to sink in – I was screwed!

Jahangir spoke first. Followed by Shah Jahan. Then it was someone who had died here having got locked out too. They all asked me to stay back, promising interesting narrations of their lives.  Then on, I wasted no moment; I ran. I ran as if there was no end to the race. I caught the steel gate and wringed myself to it. I shouted, but there was no one to hear my plea. The gate was 10 feet high. Mustering courage and strength, I began climbing. I slipped. So I tried again. And fell on the ground, yet again. Feeling more determined, I took a few sips of water and a bar of Cadbury Perk (Not only SRK, even I can do it). This time I got atop the gate. I bid adieu to the voices of Jahangir and Shah Jahan and I jumped. Phew!

I walked to the makeshift parking lot and checked the bike. Gwalior continues to amaze me - the rear view mirrors were stolen!  I met the security guard en route the grand doorway. He lectured me on how robbery takes place in the fort and asked me not to venture out crazily like this. I thanked him and found my way out of the orifice. Vrooooooom I went; to the next place where you would find hot Madu girls of Gwalior – The Pani Puri stall!!

The Terminal

The burning hot chai-in-matka on Platform no. 2 of Jharsuguda Railway station was soothing to the esophagus on this cold January evening. Unusually, there seemed to be more people on the platform than in the whole of Jharsuguda, all rearing to have a go at any train that would wade its way through the platform. I only hoped they were not waiting for mine. As luck would have it, my train Azad Hind Express from Pune was dot on time. But, the three of us were flabbergasted to find our seats occupied. As one can expect such abnormalities to happen in Odisha, we should not have been as shell-shocked as we were. It is way of life there. Survival of the fittest is bred since the time they are born and all they do is fight for rights which were rightfully theirs while exploited by others. I am no Maoisht (MB ishtyle) in voicing my opinion, but just one of those spineless citizens who adjusted himself to the presented hostility to move ahead. There were three of us – Mukundh, Monica and Tippu called the MMT trio who booked their tickets through MMT (makemytrip.com) as we shared the same traumatic experiences with rest of the Internet-enabled Indians in booking railways tickets. So, come what may, we would have to take the train to reach Calcutta the next day morning. In Azad Hind express, there was no Azadi to express anything. We got a small portion of our seats to ourselves and sat down dreading an awful night ahead.

One of the few things that I like about fellow Indians is their urgency to portray their machismo. The lady of the trio got her berth all to herself thanks to the growling from fellow passengers that they must atleast let a girl sleep comfortably although they tampered with the sleeping pattern of others. Somehow we reach Howrah. The truss balanced bridge, once known to be of Cantilever in design is the first thing that you see when you step out of Howrah station. And, of course the Yellow Ambassadors if you are not color blind. Although I am a pseudo-Bengali having spent four years in the second biggest city of Paschim Bengal, I have never been to Dum-Dum airport to take a flight for myself. I have been there to drop those filthy rich Muscatian friends (Yeah Sangeet, it’s you) or the diseased friends who needed immediate medical attention down south. So, here I was, to talk to the Bihari/Jharkhandi/UP cab drivers in broken Bengali, negotiate a rate and reach Dum-Dum as early as possible. If I was given an alternative, I would have optimized the route by taking a ferry to Babughat, strolled through the High Court lanes where you find more number of typists sitting on the platform than the cha-dukkans and reached Esplanade Metro Station. From Esplanade, I would have taken a Metro to Dum-Dum and then taken a shared cab to Airport entrance (and walked a kilometer to reach). The whole exercise in 2006 would have cost me Rs. 32.50, with the Rs. 2.50 for the matka chai. But, here I have to guide the MMT trio to Dum-Dum with as less dissonance as possible.

Our flight to Chennai was at 1140 hours and the sun had just risen at 0520 hours. Quite some time to kill. With the “kotho lagbe” and “taratari chalon”, we reached Dum-Dum at 0600 hours. Quite early for a 1140 flight! We thought of settling down at the Departure section, but found no place. Wading our way through the airport, we reached a virgin section of the airport where there were empty seats. To add to our joy, there were empty power sockets too. We had the over-priced breakfast, over-priced chai, but when it came to water, we were as chindi as possible by filling our empty Rail Neer water bottles. For some weird reasons, there were no announcements made. Hustle-bustle of crowds started. Very few were had chosen to sit; predominantly it was the floating crowd making much of the noise. It was getting very boring, when finally we decided to watch a movie. I had a copy of Kamal Haasan’s comedy riot, Panchathanthiram. We laughed and laughed and laughed. There is a not-so-common belief that too much laughter makes Karma bite us in the ass, but who cares about the pitfalls when the going is good. Finally, when the movie reached its half-way mark, we took a break to check on why there were no announcements made.

It was 1115 and yet, there were no announcements. Weird right? We repacked and, deciphering the undecipherable signs in the airport, we reached the Jet Airways desk. We showed our tickets and got a smirk from the other side of the counter. The smirk turned into a grin and then a smile. I smiled back. With her fake accent, the Jet Airways attendant told me that the flight was closed for boarding. I couldn’t get any clue of the technicalities. And when I told her that, she put it in lay man terms saying that we have missed our flight. With all guns blazing, I asked her a simple question, “How can I miss my flight when I am 20 minutes before departure?” The IRCTC guy in me crash opened my chest to come out with this logic. Things can get really embarrassing if you don’t read the fine print on the tickets. Like they say at the end of a Mutual Fund ad, “Mutual Fund investments are subject to market risk. Please read the offer document carefully before investing.” It holds true. “Report to the check-in counter minimum 50 minutes before the Departure time. Boarding closes 15 minutes prior to departure.” Adding insult to injury, the person sitting in the next Jet counter told us, “I saw you guys sitting in Arrival. I thought that you were waiting to receive someone.”

Ah. Now it dawned on us. We were watching the movie sitting in the Arrival area oblivious to our surrounding. And that was why there were no announcements. But, I still contend the logic of having heard no announcements of even those flights arriving in as well. Nevertheless, Jet agreed to pay to full refund as the flight was overbooked as they didn’t lose any revenue. We later booked an evening SpiceJet flight, for double of Jet’s price. Since our flight was in the evening, we continued with the movie, this time from Departure. With Panchathanthiram done, we went on to watch another movie - Tom Hanks’s starrer “The Terminal”. Frankly there was not much of a difference between the second movie and what we went through!

Naneghat Trip

This post appeared first on CoolAge in two parts. You can check it out at the following links:
http://www.coolage.in/2011/12/05/naneghat-trip-part-one/
http://www.coolage.in/2011/12/07/naneghat-trip-part-two/

The Iranian chai at Matunga with its unique flavour, sensation and aroma clicked active that part of the brain, which had been dormant for months. These months, they left us bewildered with Macroeconomics, Accounting, Supply Chain, et al. And we were still fighting within our own selves to find a way out. The decision to trek in the Western Ghats aroused the butterflies in the bellies and we set out to search for the lost cave atop a hill. The trek team consisted of Debashree, Kartik, Rajeev, Vaibhav and, yours truly, of course. We reached back our respective hostels at 0100 hours, 27th November 2011, 37 hours after our final exams. With cricket, South Bombay heroics and multi-cuisine luncheons, our systems pleaded for some sleep after a hectic exam schedule. But, the fire to explore more, kept us detached from hitting the sack as frequently as possible.

All of us, barring the vibrant Vaibhav, slept for 2 hours only, as we had planned to start at 0400 hours from our hostels to take the first train to Kalyan. Probably, the first time something was executed on time despite having a girl in the team. We reached Kalyan by 0530 hours bang on, and en route we were greeted by hot water disguised as chai in Dombivili station. We waited for the Shirdi bus to start and as the normal Indians that we are, three of us adjusted in the bus seat capacitated for two. Finally, when the bus did start at 0645 hours, we felt overwhelmingly blessed. The bus conductor was super-confident of where the foothills of Naneghat started which he said in his fluent Marathi that we decoded into Hindi and understood later, as his willingness to help us out. As luck would have it, we crossed the foothills of "Naneghat" at around 0800 hours, and had to ask the conductor to stop the bus. One can easily spot the difference between a super-confident man and an over-confident man; a super-confident man says he saw a time machine land here in this village; an over-confident man says that he made that time machine land in that village. Our conductor turned from a super-confident man to an over-confident man and didn't stop the bus and kept on reassuring us that the destination is further down the road. After half hour of further travel and still no signs of Naneghat, added along with some public venting of pressure, he sheepishly accepted that we have crossed the point. With no guts to throw swearing gaalis on a government employee in the middle of a Maratha village, we religiously got down and then hurled the E/C gaalis at him, after the bus left, of course.

Standing in the middle of the road, all that we could see was the Grand Canyon-structured, air-cut mountains of the Western Ghats. We were 15 km ahead of our starting point and we were told to wait for a truck or a jeep that will take us back to the trekking point. With some assistance from the local Police post, we boarded a truck that was going in our desired direction. Five of us in the small driver cabin, we were six in all, the driver included. With twisted necks and pressurized limbs, we reached our trek's starting point at 0930 hours. What should have been a cakewalk was achieved with some bum-paining efforts and it took us such a long time to reach the starting point. And what lay ahead was a search to reach the long-forgotten cave.

So, we reached the foothills of Naneghat. We started walking along the only available path and were met by a stream-bed. As rocky it can get, the Woodlands did come into the picture and was a major assistance in trekking. Google terms this trek as an "Easy" one, but as one would have it, we had to turn it the other way- "Difficult". We followed the bed of rocks and with each meter the slope was increasing by a good fraction of a degree. There were places where tan θ was put to shame while we were on our fours. And what amazed us the most was, each of us, wherever we saw, deciphered a path that could take us to the top. We did reach the top and when we did, it was only to discover that there was another, further higher. The slope was ever increasing and was indirectly proportional to the amount of water we were carrying.

We reached a second top and by that time, we were sure that we were off-track and by no means would we reach the cave. Taking inspiration from Columbus, we set to discover a new cave/peak/place. We set a target and promised ourselves that we will trek until 1230 pm. Peak after peak we went and finally we saw the biggest of the peaks. Life becomes a lot easier when we know where we have to reach, but it becomes a lot interesting when we realize that we will reach somewhere, no matter when and how. And so did we reach the peak, better than everything that we had come across and when one looks back at the trails, it's just amazing to feel that we have trekked so far.
It felt great to be there with complete silence around, listening just to oneself. To feel that, that was life – The higher you grow, the more careful you must be. Everyone down there look so tiny to you, but when you fall, the greater the impact will be and sometimes unlucky enough that no one cares to remember you, after the fall. Just when my mind was taking the philosophical route, I realized that the pug didn't stop following us, after all. Rajeev's phone rang and thanks to you Vodafone, we realized that the peak wasn't a virgin one. Vaibhav came up with an idea of shooting an ad for Vodafone and there, with our minimum equipment (a digicam), we shot the ad (which in under process now and will be released soon).

After half hour's rest, we started to descend down. And the terrain was absolutely magical. With a torn shoe grip, Vaibhav was on the casualty side at most times. Forests, jungle, tough roots, spider webs, creaking insects, rattles of snakes, barrage of slippery rocks surrounded us and the only hope to reach a place of human habitation was the traffic sounds from the South-East, towards which we were moving. Even the descend wasn't as easy as we had presumed to be. We owed that to the difficult path that we had voluntarily taken and were we glad that we did- We could reach ground zero in an hour! Out on the highway, as we waited for transportation, there came the dusty truck again. Hitchhiking on the truck, we made our journey to the nearest dhaba, to pacify our hunger growls. After a delicious meal, luckily enough, we managed to get an auto to a nearest town. After two consecutive jeep drives we reached Kalyan, from where we boarded the local train. It was 1900 hours when we reached our hostels. A strong coffee and a Saridon shot the headache that I was carrying along and it was 0800, the next day, when I opened my eyes again.

A night-out at IIM-Lucknow..

The bus from Kanpur dragged its bit out. The place I had to get down was Aal-Baal. Or that is what I got of the name, Alambagh. Lucknow was just 84 km from Kanpur and yet it takes two hours to reach the place. It was a bumpy ride and I could reason out why Uttar Pradesh is still in the BIMARU list. The rail connectivity between two important cities of the state was good, but the trains are never on time. Road connectivity was haywire. I saw railways crossings, like the ones in Bhurkhamunda village in Orissa, in NH25 connecting Kanpur and Lucknow. Construction of flyovers was on, but Gammon India would need their time to construct, maintain and collect their toll taxes.

Nevertheless, Aal-Baal came. Oops, Alambagh. It was a crowded market place and reminded me of Chandi Chowk, Delhi. Fighting all odds against the traffic, my friend Pratap finally got there to spot me. Vroom as we went and he showed me the railway station upfront. Trust me; it was one of the most beautiful Mughal architectures. It took my breath away, though my fellow Lucknow-ites where just whizzing past me, oblivious to the marvel, embellishing the place with pan flavoured red juice. As a part of the ritual, I had to pay my visit to Tunday Kababi at Aminabad. I never knew that, kebabs could actually melt. These Tunday kebabs, they did. Before we knew that it was 2000 hrs, 3 plates of kebabs vanished down our throats.

Pratap, then, told me of his plans of visiting the Janpath of Lucknow. On our way to the Janpath, one thing I noticed about Lucknow, reiterated by Pratap, was that the traffic signals at Lucknow do not work. Except the one I found in a busy market area. The signal near Vidhan Sabha did not work and so did the one near the Janpath of Lucknow. When I entered the Dr. Bhimarao Ambedkar Smarak in Gomati Nagar, I realized that it was not Janpath. It was Jannat. Elephant statues adorned the place; the haathi-senas were sculpted with red stone. Not only were there statues, but also bridges, structures, arches and various other portraits. It looked like Central Park of New York, although, my knowledge of the international hangout spot is only through hear-say. But, I felt that was the most justified way of describing Gomati Nagar’s flourished art work display - roads were wider; bridges over River Gomati and at fantastic speed on a motorcycle, the place didn’t look like the clichéd Uttar Pradesh.

We zoomed towards the prestigious Indian Institute of Management. A 15 km ride took us to the magnanimous school of management gurus, the fact being that it never seemed to come, until it really did. Carved out inside a dense forest, a passerby wouldn’t have an iota of knowledge of an IIM in that vicinity. We went in, and just like any other government institute the guards didn’t bother to awaken from their deep slumber. A peek into the ‘evergreen’ campus and I came to know that they do grow Grass which by popular thought was considered relaxing. Not to mention the inmates’ favorite code-word – “3.4” which translates to the 24 hours BSE (Booze Sutta Exchange) that is at 3.4 km from the main gate.  Thanks to constant pestering, Pratap took me to Himanshu Rai’s residence. I wanted to break a glass or two, but there were other serious issues, like the Indian cricket team being slaughtered by chokers, to watch out for.

As we reached Pratap’s hostel room I headed straight for the common room, greeted by just 5 guys watching the high tension match. My question was “Are you nerds kidding me? Five is all the number that you could muster for this livewire drama?” Yet, one cord of similarity between an ordinary Indian and an IIM guy was “Why did Dhoni give that last over to Nehra?” Reasoning with the former question, my logical thought was to believe that these guys weren’t watching the match for obvious reasons: because of their everlasting assignments and quizzes. On the contrary, the real reason was that that it was a Saturday night and thus there was no better thing to do than to attain Moksha.

Every wing had a party zone and every party zone was filled with guys directing gaalis at girls (they had a better word starting with the alphabet “b”), professors, the nine-pointers (euphemism for c**k-suckers) and obviously their untalented friends who made it to IIM-A. The generic widespread frustration among the lot was how close they were to IIM-A, but on the note of grapes being sour, they boasted of a better placement statistics than their considered rival school. I had an awesome night-out and never felt out of place. I never had to introspect on the fact that I could not make it there, despite which we all belonged to the group of souls enjoying similarities in rock music, grabbing pegs of soda and banging our heads.

It was four in the morning when I took an auto-rickshaw to the railway station as my train back to Delhi was at 0525 hrs. It was a journey to remember and quite obviously from my past experiences, the train was late. When the perpetrating train did arrive, I took my seat, with no fellow passengers for company; I settled down to sleep, until I was awakened by a co-passenger in Kanpur.

On the road again - Day 1

The April hot air was cold at 0430 hours in Jharsuguda when I and Abir kick-started my Thunderbird for the longest journey that we had planned till date. His quota to drive in the smooth SH10 was receding as fast as the morning replacing the dawn. By the time, the first rays hit the face of Oriya roads, we were in Sambalpur. Sambalpur is famous for Sambalpuri silk sarees, which are a one of its kind in the nation. Sambalpur being an important junction connects Bhubaneshwar on NH42, Mumbai via Raipur on one limb of NH6 and Kolkata via Keonjhar on the other limb while Jharsuguda on SH10. 10km further on from Sambalpur on NH6 towards Raipur one finds the vociferous Mahanadhi getting banked on the humungous Hirakud Dam. Known for its magnanimous structure, Hirakud dam is the world’s largest earthen dam with the walls running in for 30km connecting Burla and Hirakud town. Standing atop, it feels to be wavering along the ocean with no boundaries.

Refilling our wallets with a few grands, half of what we were expected to have by 20^th of the month also and the fuel tank with Speed Petrol, we had imagined to hit the 120kmph mark at ease on NH42. Abir not letting go of the rider’s seat, our usual count of swapping the seats was increased to 100km keeping the magnitude of the journey in mind. Updating my FB status to the current happenings, I knew that by the time my friends logged into FB, I would have reached my destination comfortably. The scenic beauty of the hills on the right hand side and farms on the left hand side left us dazed about the place through which we were travelling. At 100km from Jharsuguda we reached Charmal, a place specifically needs the mentioning. We took a break and ordered the nation’s best beverage to rejoice – Chai. We had mistakenly parked the 200kg monster in the muddy service lane and it took a while for us to bring it back on to NH42. Kick it with all might and it won’t start. After 10 minutes of desperate kicking, the bird refused to budge. We identified the problem with spark plug, but the engine was too hot to be meddled with. After half an hour of rest, with help from the Chai-dukaan, we got hold of Sankara, the mechanic. He opened the twin-spark that always made the trouble, cleaned it with the Speed Petrol and roared the engine. As a blessing in disguise for him, 50 bucks transferred hands without the required amount of work being done.

I started the engine and the April heat was getting on to us. Abir carrying a decent amount of luggage, I was the culprit with carrying a huge back-pack inspired by the song “Aaromale”. The entire blame was not on me as I was carrying Abir’s HDD as well. Finding it difficult to carry and maneuver, we stopped the bike and were making the make-shift arrangements to reduce our burden. Finally, finding a solution to it, we put the back-pack on the fuel tank and cruised away. When it was 0900 hours, we had cruised 250km to Angul to stop for our breakfast. The stoppage at Charmal had badly hit our average speed, calculated to just 60kmph. We removed our helmets, our elbow and shin guards, paused our music players and ordered Upma for breakfast, which being a favorite of Abir. We planned our next course to reach our destination with a better average speed so that we were able to make up for our loss. After applying the necessary sunscreens and putting back the armory on, we left Angul on the same NH42. Angul, known for Naxalites and National Aluminium Company is one of the fine industrial cities of Orissa. With more number of thermal powerplants coming up in the vicinity, the Naxal movement is taking a head-on clash with the blessed, fighting for the unprivileged. One observation worth mentioning is that the roads of Angul have improved a lot since our last trip. The clutters were removed and dancing jacks had been replaced by roads of NH standards.

When we were nearing Dhenkanal, there was a huge line of vehicles on the left hand side. Trucks, buses, cars, bullock-carts, were lined one after the other. We thought a railway gate that we could not remember of, was closed. But, that would not mean to stop vehicles for a 20km stretch. Reading into the situation, there was chaos as well. There were unsettling nerves about something tragic that had happened. Not again, we thought. We could hardly accelerate above 30kmph and reached a place where there was absolute chaos with tyres being burnt with animosity in the air as fuel. The police officer controlling the situation was looking directly at us and was calling us towards him. We did not know anything, we are simple bikers caught in a myriad haywire. Gathering courage, we biked towards the officer to find that he has made way for bikes in the zone to pass. Salute him, I thought. The whole mishap was about a bike ramming into a truck and there was heavy bloodshed. A furor was created as the person belonged to the nearby village and the road-services were disrupted. Thanks to the officer, we saved some 4 hours to circumvent the situation. On the other side of the accident, we saw the same line of trucks, buses, cars, bullock-carts and bikes stranded for 25km on the right side of the road. With the sun-streaming down on us, my tanned forearms called for a hydration break.

We reached Dhenkanal and moved swiftly through the hot whirlwind and reached Cuttack at 1300 hours and took the mighty NH5 of the Golden Quadrilateral. Speed mellowed down due to traffic, Abir felt difficulty in driving as we almost skidded past a truck that was going mayhem. Tempers and frustration rising between us mainly due to the heat, both of us displayed tremendous control in not yelling at each other. May be that is what the hot shopfloors of Vedanta has taught us - To remain cool when the situation and the ambience is hot. We reached Bhubaneswar at 1400 hours, scouted a hotel and refreshed. The conditioned air and the cold orange-flavored Glucon-D did some good to us. We later went to the Royal Motors to collect back our Insurance papers and visited our favorite restaurant – Tangerine and had a sumptuous meal. Searching for Lassi in the capital of Orissa, the salty ones tasted yuck although Abir had two of them. We later reached our hotel and dozed off. A true CSK fan in me woke up at the right time to watch the IPL Semi-Finals which CSK won against DC. The first day of the huge bike cruise was over. An arduous bike trip that was ahead of us the next day, taunted us, even in the dreams. 

Spark Plug

"Station Ochunundi. Jaragandi babu.", shook my Telegu co-passenger. Yeah, I thought. Stepping out of the artificially cooled coach, I found the sky clear. At early dawn, birds starting to chirp, the platform no.2 seemed long. With a jolt from the blue, I remembered that my bike is on the parcel van. Ran to one extreme of the platform to make sure, it did not reach Allepey by any chance as it belonged to my place. As any Indian goes through the same trauma of paying bribe as if he is paying a non-receipted tax, I paid 200 bucks to make OR23-C-7860 stand on the platform. And I was informed by the tax collector that I can collect the bike from the other end of the platform. Lurching ahead, I went to the end of the train with my heavy backpack and the laptop.

With no petrol in the tank, I did not have a clue how to carry forward at 0400 hours. Carrying inflammable articles like petrol, kerosene is a punishable offense. They do not mind, if the tracks are wired, but, they are very particular about the petrol inside the bike. I know Safety precautions, but, what about the engine oil then. I feel this is where our intelligence fails. With seven kilometers to reach, I do not have the hydrogen-fuel-technology to power my way through. Then, the spark plug in me ignited. I called up my nocturnal friend and asked him to bring petrol along from any of the 24hour station. A big positive about big cities, things here are 24*7, mechanic shops not being taken into account.

After half an hour, he reached and without a second thought, I emptied two litres of petrol. If one has got to say about crime, carrying petrol in bottles from a Petrol bunk is a crime. Once again, an intelligence failure. Now, it was time for a thumping start. Kick-Dub-Dub-Dub-fail. Again kicked. Again and again. With all the cosmos filling in at 0430 hours, I doubted air lock. I blew air, fanatically into the tank to release the air lock. But, nothing worked out. Given another chance to my spark plug, and some telephonic conversation with my mechanic, I tried with the carburetor settings and as expected, nothing worked out.

Where is the mechanic shop at 0500 hours? So, called up the Just Dial service and asked them if they could help me in finding mechanic shops around the Central station for a bullet. Instant came the SMSes containing the name and contact nos. of the mechanics around. Tried calling those nos. and in vain, I found deep sleep on the other side. The only guy who received the call, was reluctant to come since, I was not his permanent customer. "Dude, this is the first time I'm in the city with my bike and you expect me to be your permanent customer?"

With all Permutations and Combinations drying out, the only other logical reason was that the fuel was not getting ignited. Then, I called up another friend who updated his FB status saying that he is jobless at 0500 hours. Thinking, "Buddy, I got a job for you now", he reached within 15 minutes to flaunt his control over speed on early-morning free roads. Chit-chatting for an hour, and well-knowing that the mechanic shops around the place opens by 0900 hrs, we had the company of soda, sprite and cigs. With the bike, under my friends custody, I went back home in one of their bikes, freshened up and then reached back at 0800 hours.

Reaching back, instantaneously, I started removing the spark plugs and cleaned them. With lots of Carbon deposits, it was all transferred to my hands. Then, my bike started, then stopped. The cycle went on for quite a while. To our great amazement, a mechanic shop close-by opened by 0830 hours. Towing to that shop, and with clear explanations, he cleaned up the spark plugs with petrol and then the clear dub-dub-dub started. It was a moment of co-incidence that Airtel sends me a SMS, "Welcome to Chennai. For assistance please call our Customer Care at 121."

A Road to Raipur..

"Sir, I need a weekly off tomorrow."

"Last month only you took a day off and went to Bhubaneswar."

"Sir, I went to bring my bike and after that I have had just one weekly off in four weeks."

"Hmmm. Let me think about it. But, why do you need one tomorrow? By the way, tomorrow is Thursday; aaaand that means you will be coming on Friday?"

"Sir, Friday is my weekly off."

"What? Two days leave. What will happen here? You are so irresponsible, taking so many leaves. By the way, why do you need leave tomorrow?" (As if it is his baap ka company which won't run if I don't come)

"Sir..... Have to go to Raipur... Have some work there.... My aunt's relative is coming there to sell her property and she will be flying to Saudi soon and I won't get to meet her beautiful daughter for some years now." (Bingo, Tell a girl's name and there you see his face shine. Frustrated souls of core companies.)

"Oh... Going to meet your girl is it? Achcha, Ok.. But, make sure u come to office by Saturday"

Finally got out of the ill-fated cabin and headed to complete the day's work. Wednesday being the middle of the week, there was not much of work at 1730hrs. Punched out at 1800hrs and reached my home. Packed the necessities and had a sound sleep.

Woke up at 0500hrs on a beautiful November Thursday, freshened up and went straight to Abir's house and picked him up. With lots of nudging and pushing, he finally accepted that we will go in my bird, but was reluctant to take a second helmet. Again, a lecture to convince him and finally we were on the highway to Sambalpur by 0700hrs.

"Any idea, which road to take from Sambalpur?"

"Tippu, we will see to that. First lets have our breakfast."

We had our usual Puris at a dhaba and I was feeling sleepy. I asked him to drive the next 100km and then we will swap. There we went asking people, "Bhaiyya, Which road for Raipur" and finally reached NH6. Crossed the mighty Mahanadhi and true to its name, it is Maha-nadhi. So, huge and voluminous that one tends to wonder about the amount of engineering that would have gone in building that bridge. A moment to capture, we shot our Facebook stills with the bike and the enormous bridge. Later, we set out on NH6 traversing Burla, where the nearest multi-specialty hospital is located in the vicinity and at 100km from Jharsuguda, we reached Bargarh. Happy to see a cinema hall there, we made plans to watch all the soon to be released new movies there. Quite a big town and then after 50km we swapped positions. An untold secret about Thunderbirds is that on long rides, the best place to be is the rider. The pillion feels so uncomfortable that the pee and the chai breaks becomes a frequent visitor reducing the average speed.

After another 50km, we came across the board "Thank you for visiting Orissa. Please visit again." "Its my pleasure, atleast I will be away from the sick-state Orissa for more than twelve hours now". After entering Chhattisgarh, the road started to break in the middle. It was difficult to maintain a speed of 60kmph on a trot, but later the road's condition took the sinusoidal curve. Near important towns, the road did get better and for the first time I was riding in a Hindi-spoken state. All around I saw the shops' name in Hindi and took some time to set in to the gathering. Chai in Chhattisgarh sucks and after a few more FB shoots, we reached Raipur at 1430hrs.

Seven and half hours of blissful riding and we straight went into the mall and booked the matinee show for "Ajab Prem ki Gazab Kahani". We had a couple of Pizza and my heart missed a beat when Abir told me that it is difficult to get non-vegetarian food in Raipur. The movie was a real stress-buster and sometime Pagalpanti also has its own cue.

Came down, had a coffee at the nearby CCD and the girls particularly were not that hot or gorgeous. A few mini-skirts to ogle at and the rest were the plain traditional dress. Nothing was out of the way beautiful about them, but, they were trying hard to portray the-we-are-traditional-girls-in-a-modern-city. We then booked the tickets for the night show and the choice was the worst, Kurban. I did not know it then, but repented very much after the movie.

Later searched for a nice hotel to stay and to put our luggage and for the first time I stopped my bike at a traffic signal. It did feel good only for a couple of seconds, then the cop sidelined us and was asking for our identifications. Happy to see that we were coming from a big industry, he was aghast, just like anyone else, as why we came by a bike. We crossed the Central prison shooting night-time videos, freshened up in the hotel and set out for dinner and the movie. I wanted to eat non-vegetarian food badly, but we were lost in quite a big city of Raipur. Too many cross roads took us to the beautiful and residential parts of the city and as a blessing in disguise, my eyes fell upon "Madrasi Grill". How lucky can I be? Double bingo. Authentic Tamil Nadu Muslim Biriyani at Raipur, where you do not come across a non-vegetarian hotel. Relished my dish and reached the theatre in time for the show and what a crap movie it was. It was yet again an american-muslim-terrorist movie. Finally, we called the long day off and settled under the razai as the winter was finally being felt.

Next day, we started our return journey and shot a few more videos of Raipur and were off on NH6. At around 150km from Raipur, due to a sudden overtake and a loss of control, we hit off-road into the bumps and finally the ill-fated accident occurred with Abir. For the n^th time, the helmet saved both of us. Lucky were we that, we escaped with very minor injuries. Then was my turn to ride as he was badly injured and after 10 minutes of resumed riding, he again asked to take the bike to the side. We stopped and he took a nap.

Finally, on the road again, I was feeling sleepy while riding and there came Abir's resilience to take the reins again. With dehydration taking its toll, we reached Bargarh and ran into the restrooms of Hotel Ganpati. Finally, relieved of the pressure, we relished the American (Oriya) Chopsey and headed back to Jharsuguda with winters getting really colder with the then recent rains. That was when I realized the power of Leather accessories, a must in your kit.

Saturday came.

"Aur, Tippu.. How was your trip? How is your girl?"

"Had a nice trip sir. Looking forward to some more if you would grant me leaves."

"Nahi yaar. You had a reason, so I let you go. But, since she is away for now, concentrate on work for now."

"Ok Sir." (I can see my break-up coming. Atleast for the sake of the next road trip ;) )

Safe Riding.

Red and Black..

The Wednesday morning was cool with my face getting a splash of cold winter breeze while pillion-riding LML Freedom with Abir. The October 14 morning was just another usual cold morning with the exception of enticing things that lay ahead. Bullock riding our way through the village to the office, we punched-in late by 15 minutes as usual. Then the usual chai with hot crunchy samosas kicked off the work with the same contempt. Although my workplace restricts me to wear only digital watches, I could sense the movement of the seconds' hand of the watch equivalent to its hours. Somehow completed the crappy work and there we were off, as soon as the clock stuck 14:00. I went to my room, changed and was ready with my backpack. With Pratap's punctuality we started our Road trip in his car to the capital of Orissa at 16:00hrs. Abir and I occupied the rear seat with Pratap being the only one to know to how to drive a car on a highway, among the three of us. The keen apprehension of driving back on the same NH42 was enormous, but, with Abir, anything is possible. He ensured that things would be fine, every time when we passed through the Naxalite patches.

We reached Bhubaneshwar at 01:00, 15th October and rested at Pratap's place. One exotic thing about car road trips is the coupling effect of soothing music in amazing speakers with the brilliant landscapes. On our right we had dark, tall mountains and unscathed villages on the left. The best song that we enjoyed was "Jao na" from "What's you Rashee?" apart from the eternal "Dil Chahtha Hai". You got to try, and I am sure, you will enjoy it.

On a lighter note what I observed about the faucets of Bhubaneshwar is that they sprinkle water compared to the gushing faucets elsewhere. At Pratap's place, hotels, anywhere one went the same similarity. We had a light breakfast with the excitement increasing exponentially, reached the only showroom in the city. The Royal Motors, Bhubaneshwar was neither as royal as the name sounded nor as big as compared to the machines in store. Mine - the black one and Abir's - the red one was kept outside and we were introduced the machos. With a pre-existing Thunderbird in the showroom, we took a test ride. That was the first time, I rode a Bullet and the experience was devastating for me. Devastating in the sense, I started doubting my integrity. With some emotional help from Abir, Pratap and my best friend Sangeet, I was doing a little better. The small ride was so sensational that I was haunted with the doubts whether I would suit the bike or not, leave alone my trip back.

Then came the cash transfer issue. The couple of birds cost Rs.2.05lac. As we already had paid an initial booking amount, we were complied to pay more Rs.1.85lac. With no cash in hand and everything in card, we faced the challenge of the day of transferring the money. With Internet banking failing us once again, we were left with the only option of withdrawing cash from the ATMs. Hail Mr. P. Chidambaran and the maximum amount that we could withdraw was a paltry Rs.25k per account. We were short of Rs.1.35lac now. God save and there we went to the ICICI Bank of the city. With some breakthrough technology in the banking sector, our birds were saved with the system of RTGS (Real Time Gross Settlement). From this account to that account and from there to another account and finally to Royal Motors account we transferred the Rs.1.35lac. Paid the rest with cash and with the kind assistance from Pratap, we got the keys of our exclusive birds in our hands. The moment in a life, which everyone must enjoy, is pure bliss. With still some tuning left with the machines, we went for helmet shopping and Pratap was the first man to ride my Bird as I was still damn scared to sit on it. With a confidence-boosting session from Abir, I took a ride to the XIMB Cafe Coffee Day and chilled out with my favorite Choc-a-Vloc. Later, we hunted down for a Spicy Biriyani shop and riding in the city night was a special fun with a new bike. We were the immediate centre of attraction when we criss-crossed the wide roads. Diwali, a day away, we bought some crackers and made to Pratap's place by midnight.

The date was 16th October. Bhubaneswar, being a coastal city had its share of winter. 05:00hours was pretty plain and that was when we kick-started our respective birds to a 355km drive. We were advised not to cross 60 kmph speed limit for the longevity of the engine. We crossed the mighty Mahanadhi and then took the NH42. One helluva experience was crossing a mighty river with a thumping background at 06:00hrs. With the speed tab constantly ringing in our minds, Abir was fixing timely targets as we traveled through Dhenkenal, where we had our first chai stop after 80km from Cuttack. Then, at 150km from Cuttack, we reached Angul, the hub of NALCO and the Naxal-brewing place. We stretched ourselves in a hotel where we had our breakfast and still we had 250km to cover. The time was already 10:00 as I was scared to drive for this long. The first 200+km road trip for me and it really did kick the gut out of me. Abir then cajoled me with his first long trip from Kota to Jaipur on a bike and that was as cool as a cucumber and infused the hunger to drive more. With sleep setting, Abir twice almost fell into the adjoining bushes. That was when we laughed and had a nice photo-shoot. Music does play a very important role, because without music, I am certain to have lost my concentration from the road.

The road was superb except for the Angul stretch of 30km and the scenery on both sides were scintillating. There were these small chai shops along the highway proving to be a blessing in disguise. With kilometers behind us, we were the talk of the road, as the fellow-riders were asking about the specifications, price and lots other things concerned with the bird. How often, one sees two brand new Thunderbirds, blazing on a highway?

At around 15:00, we reached within the vicinity of Sambalpur. Jharsuguda is just 50km and we were certain that we will reach Jharsuguda by 17:00 hours calculating with our lunch break. Had a sumptuous biriyani again and left for the final stretch. This stretch is our usual weekend road; so, we know the curves and turn as clear as a NFS gamer knowing the tracks. Finally, we reached Jharsuguda and all Abir had to tell me was that this is his first long trip too....