Rajan Kashyap

Adventures in real life usually happen by pure chance. Last week, I found myself imprisoned for several hours in my own car. At high noon, it was sweltering at 43 degree Celsius. The GT Road, India’s busiest highway, had been effectively blockaded by protesters near Jalandhar. Cars and buses, carrying men, women and children, were stranded, unable to move forward or back.

Caught unawares, the travellers could not access even drinking water. The unforeseen stoppage of traffic proved to be a great leveller. Labourers, their families in tow, literally rubbed shoulders with the elite, who had to descend from their swanky Mercedes and Skodas. The only shelter available was the shade of half-grown trees on the dividing verge of the motorway. Every person was pining for a glass of water to replenish sapped energy. Some entrepreneurs had a field day selling water and aerated drinks at inflated rates.

Seeing no prospect of traffic moving, I desperately called a friend whose farmhouse was in the vicinity. Imagine my relief when a motorcyclist appeared out of nowhere! It was a gentleman farmer who had been detailed by my friend to rescue me. My benefactor offered me a ride on the uncomfortable pillion seat of his two-wheeler. We would have to travel on little-used village byways, he warned me, but his vehicle could weave through the labyrinth of vehicles.

In my younger days, I had used a sturdy scooter for touring villages in my official job. That was, however, several decades in the past. Now in my seventies, it was a venture fraught with risk.

Hemmed in as I was, I decided to take the plunge. Leaving my driver to bring the car later, I bravely jumped on to the contraption. We used to refer to our bicycles as ‘bikes’. The same term now connotes a powerful motorcycle.

The pillion seats of today’s machines are designed for the modern youth, I realised. To retain your balance, there is just one clumsy little handle that you can clutch. As the machine of 3.5 horse power quickly attains its cruising speed, you struggle like a novice rider atop an untamed, buckling horse. I found myself clinging for dear life as my host, who introduced himself as Jaggi, moved deftly from village to village on paths that might have been used by horsemen a century ago.

Jolting over rickety, uneven village streets took a painful toll on the joints. Surprisingly, despite no visible traffic, the residents had built speed-breakers. It was a marvel how he skillfully manoeuvred the potholes and breakers impeding our movement.

After a frightening drive of 45 minutes, I was deposited safely at my friend’s house. Profusely sweaty and dust-laden I was, but intact in limb. I recalled the words of the famous 16th-century essayist Francis Bacon, ‘Travel in the younger sort is a part of education; in the elder, a part of experience.’ My memorable experience was of a joyride unlike any.