Travel Diary-Part 1

Normally, one associates ‘travel diaries’ as lengthy and colourful descriptions of great journeys, far and wide. From Ladakh to Lakshadweep and Monte Carlo to Madagascar, they offer an insight into unknown lands and exotic locales. Well, my travel diary is a little more humble. Or say, meek. It describes my journey on a route thousands undertake everyday, the journey from Pune to Mumbai. The distance between the two cities is all of 150 kilometers, covered in typically 3 and half hours by road. I have traveled up and down this route a zillion times in the past 4 years, by rail, bus and car. So what was so special about this one journey from Pune to Mumbai? Well, for starters, it had a sense of finality to it. It was as if I was bidding farewell to Pune, my surrogate city. Four glorious years here had taken me from a ‘12^th pass’ to a ‘graduate’. And now it was time to leave for Mumbai. On a bike!

Yes, I had bought a bike in Pune, thanks to the city’s dismal public transport system. Many people have contradicted me on the use of the word ‘bike’. Technically speaking, it wasn’t a bike. It was a scooter. A Honda Aviator. These ‘people’ duly point out the difference every time I call it a ‘bike’. They believe that bikes belong to a superior class and that scooters are lowly and ‘cattle class’. It is apparently, quite blasphemous to equate the two! Needless to say, I beg to differ. Not caring much for the ‘coolness quotient’ of the bikes, I think utility-wise scooters have the upper hand. They provide the necessary stability on congested city roads and importantly, offer storage space. Strangely, my mom & dad wanted me to buy a bike (for disparate reasons obviously). While their superior mileage and fuel savings were on my dad’s mind, my mom was drooling over a flashy new bike and thought it would make her ‘laadla’, a dude! I’m sure they exchanged worried glances when I reasoned with them for a scooter. They thought I had seriously lost it!

Moving on now, my Aviator had to be somehow transported to Mumbai. Countless people had given me countless suggestions. Some said that I could have it transported in a bus. Some said truck. Some asked me to play safe and employ the services of the Indian rail. And then some, jeered heartily at the other ‘suggestors’ and asked me to drive it down myself. ‘Exhorted’ is more like it. I didn’t pay heed to them at first. Then the instigations began. That it takes balls to do something like that was agreed upon. Tales of valor and bravery were dutifully narrated to egg me on. That 150 kilometers was peanuts, as compared to the great miles driven by great people in the past, was pointed out. Provocations ran wild. And ultimately, riding my Aviator to Mumbai was the only chance I had, to prove my detractors wrong, was the general consensus! Who my detractors were and what exactly I had to prove to them, I have still not understood!

As I sat there bewildered, I began to weigh my options. The prospect of actually driving my bike down sure seemed exciting. The heart had leapt up with joy but the ever-cautious mind would need some convincing. But that too, didn’t take long. All it took was one of those transport agents describing to me all the hassles, the ‘safer ‘options involved and his subtle endorsement of the ‘do-it-yourself’ method. A few anecdotes from ‘The Adventures of when that cool uncle of yours was young’, which invariably includes a stunt like this, makes you think “If he could do it 35 years ago, why not me?”

And so, here I was, my heart & mind both convinced that riding my bike to Mumbai was the best option I had. Only one tiny hiccup remained. Mom and Dad. Two words every guy, no matter what his age is terrified of. Of course, I had assured myself of the safety of the exercise. But that had been possible only after deliberately overlooking certain facts and a somewhat half-hearted risk analysis. I had almost bribed my heart into goading my mind into it. Influencing my parents, however, would not prove to be that easy. So I took the path of least resistance-not telling them at all!

At least, that’s what I thought I would do, had it not been for that darned thing called ‘conscience’. I gave my Dad just the slightest hint that I was going to be driving down Monday morning, so that I could at least be absolved of the crime of ‘deliberate concealment of facts’. But how he ended up uncovering the entire plot is beyond me! And then, expectedly, followed the deluge.

Phonecalls dissuading me from committing this huge mistake and messages listing out the various risks and safety concerns involved, choked my cell for the next 2 hours. First, there were stern “No’s” to everything. When that didn’t seem to work, threats followed. And finally, seeing that all was failing, philosophical messages on ‘life’, the importance of ‘sound decision making ’ and the ills of ‘imprudence & impetuousness’ were employed. But this was one of those few times one enjoys being steadfast in the face of cacophonous opposition. And steadfast, I was! Finally, resigned voices wished me luck and pleaded that I take care of myself. Phew. I could almost hear the trumpets playing in the background and could see the sun rising from behind dark mountains! Yeah baby! It was on!