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Motorcycle diaries: Memories of Mumbai |
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by Taimur Khan The Peak MUMBAI, INDIA (CUP)–Paydirt! After two weeks in India, the prayers have been answered and somewhere in my life I did something right. I am getting my eager paws on a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-7R in the middle of Mumbai for the entire next week! In this city, where there is a duty of 120 per cent plus “fees” charged on all imported bikes, this is a rare treat, especially for free. What makes it even cooler is the fact that a Bollywood movie has recently been released that mimics The Fast and the Furious – except on crotch rockets – which means every man, woman, and child in this city will openly drool when they see this bike fly through downtown. Poser? It’s all part of the experience. I go pick up the bike from the Taj Hotel, a very bling-bling, five-star establishment full of white-haired suits and a plethora of trophy wives from around the world. The receptionist’s eyes widen as she sees me approach in my cheap Old Navy T-shirt, my favourite ripped cargo pants, and dirty, worn out Pumas. Of course, my Canadian accent smoothes everything over and the key to the bike is handed over. Another biker staying at the Taj has been told I am coming, so he meets me in the lobby. He’s a designer from New York who recently moved to Mumbai and is looking for an apartment. He talks about the hell he had to endure to get his sport bike into India, also a Kawasaki. Initially he tried to bring it in as a design prop, but ended up giving juicy “gifts” to get his bike registered on the road. I listen, half of me soaking in the new knowledge, the other half itching to rudely run out and hop on the bike. He’s looking kind of yellow and tells me he has jaundice. He looks anxiously at the Kawasaki keys in my hand and is torn between riding with me and staying home. He calls his girlfriend and after some serious negotiations he jumps to his feet with a grin and says we can go riding together. After disappearing briefly he returns with two helmets – in retrospect, I admit, I hadn’t thought of a helmet. We pull the covers off the bikes. Instant reaction: Beautiful! My bike hadn’t been ridden in six months and it broke my heart to see her covered in dust. The key turns and a red button is pressed. The inimitable sound that only a sport bike can make greets my ears like a symphony of angels proclaiming a momentous era. Through the rich audio layers I detect a cacophony of chained demons, straining against their bonds, begging me to release them and let my heart overtake my logic. I remind myself that this bike is worth more than the average Indian’s life earnings and is not my own — the demons are temporarily tranquilized. The confines of the stuffy garage are filled with smoke and the guards jump aside as the two rumbling beasts approach the outside world. Once we’re out on the road I can’t stop grinning. The bike feels great, the weather is muggy, and riding brings a refreshing blast of cool wind. After a month away from my own bikes, I feel like I have reached Nirvana and the past and future matter are no more. I look over at my soul mate and grin. In this brief moment, the identical feeling we share transcends all other thoughts, emotions, worries, and stereotypes. I pull a nice, long second-gear wheelie and a group of street kids start screaming and chase us down the road. We pull up side by side at a stoplight and my friend points to my bike in an uncomforting way. I look down and see some liquid dripping on the asphalt. I look closer. It’s gas. Since the bike has been sitting for six months, I figure it must be some excess fuel in the carburetor draining itself. Nothing to worry about. The demons start to clang on their chains. I know I should pull over and check properly, but in this moment, it’s the last thing I want to do. The light turns green and we continue on our journey. Within seconds the demons have my attention and ... liquid? What liquid? I decide to stretch the bike a bit and for the next minute the palm trees, dirty buildings, and road signs are a blur. The next red light is fast approaching so I squeeze on the brakes and wait for my buddy to catch up. We pull up at the intersection with everyone staring, pointing, and excitedly waving at us. After what seems like an eternity, the light turns green and I twist the throttle, deciding to pull another wheelie through the intersection, showing off to the throngs. But . . . nothing. Halfway through the intersection the bike bogs. My friend has already flown through the intersection as my bike dies. I feel a warm sensation around my thighs and look down. Holy ^$@#! I have one-foot-high flames licking away at my pants and my crotch. I dump the bike, jump off, and run away in self-preservation. I turn around halfway and see the flames are now three feet high. Yikes. I realize the bike must be saved or else I may never get the chance to ride someone else’s precious crotch rocket in India again. I turn back to the crowd of people, now all standing with their arms folded over their chests and staring in rapture at the burning vehicle. “Pani!” I yell. No response. “Water! Get water!” No change. I tear my helmet off my head and hurl it at the nearest zombie. It hits him square in the chest and he wakes up startled and runs off to find water. I feel a bit better and scan the area for more sources of water. I spot a sugar-cane juice stand and start to sprint in its direction. The man who went to get water comes back to me and hands me ... a teacup. Yes, a teacup of water. In frustration I throw the entire cup towards the bike and make my way to the sugar-cane stall. I see a barrel of water next to it and a decent-sized pail that just barely fits in. The barrel is too heavy so I fill the pail and run towards the bike, my heart thumping at the sight of the flames enveloping the gas tank. I gulp down my fear while running up and dumping the water on the bike. The fire stops for about two seconds and comes right back in full fervor. I make a few trips back and forth, panting and praying. A few guys start helping me with juice glasses which gives me some sort of hope. Finally I come to the realization that I have to stand the bike up or the gas will continue to leak from the carburetor and burn. In an act of desperation, I dunk a pail of water on my clothes, hair, and body and dash out to the bike. Hefting a 450-pound hunk of burning metal and gas is quite the adrenaline rush. It was up and then a few more pails of water doused the fire. The bike was burning for a full three minutes before the fire was put out. I gathered my wits and looked around me. The busy intersection had been fully blocked and well over 200 people were standing around gawking. Cameras flashed and people pointed at me. They went up to the slightly toasted bike and started to play with the throttle and brakes! When I spoke aloud, a new look of wonderment appeared. Yes, the Canadian accent again. By this time the police – and fire-trucks – had come and my buddy had backtracked and found me. The police went through my license and papers – thankfully they didn’t burn them. I had just been dreading the thought of the bike getting impounded. Imported sports bikes are still black-market vehicles in a way and I knew they could have given me hell over it. The crazy wet foreigner riding a glamorous semi-legal bike that caught on fire in the middle of Mumbai was too much – so the media came out armed with cameras and microphones. The police formed a protective circle and told me and my friend to get the bikes away from the area or else there would be problems. The media were briefed by a policeman as we were quietly escorted by cop cars. I hopped on my burnt bike and my buddy pushed it with his leg while riding his bike. By some miracle we managed to sneak out and hide the bikes in an apartment complex nearby while the media were distracted by the cops. It turned out that a rubber gasket in the carburetor had dried out and deteriorated over the six-month period and leaked gas. The next day I went to inspect the bike and, believe it or not, I could fire up her up! The parts wouldn’t be available for two weeks so, sadly, I never got to ride the Ninja again. The owner was very understanding and in fact I was told it was a good thing I was riding when it happened rather than someone who would’ve left it to burn. A week later I flew to Hong Kong and received an e-mail with a pic of me opening up the burnt bike. Memories. |