The Second Coming

The year was 1980.

M had married T the year before and they had moved to Coonoor. M worked in Coonoor and T in Ooty. The commute on the bus was becoming pretty downright miserable given the weather, et al.

One evening T landed up at home and there right in front of him was this beautiful piece of machinery, glittering in all its glory.

It was a Yezdi and was a gift from his wife.

That bike saw many a happy time touring the southern states – Ooty, Coonoor, Pondicherry, Chennai, Bangalore and so much more.

It also saw some dark hours.

Once, M was waiting with some friends at their favourite Chinese joint while T was on his way to join them. The manager Po Kun was a friend and had joined them at the table. A call came through for Po Kun and he left the table. When he came back he was holding a stiff brandy. He asked M to knock it back before he would tell her what happened. So she did and listened.

T had been on his way up the hill. Opening up the throttle on an empty stretch he accelerated uphill. From nowhere a truck appeared on the wrong side of the road. T didn’t have the time to even take his hand off the throttle, let alone brake or swerve. He was hit straight-on by the truck. Thrown off the bike, he flew through the air and landed somewhere down the hillside.

Miraculously, not a single bone in his body was broken. He suffered from great pain caused my muscle stress and whiplash over the coming months, but, he thanked his lucky stars that day.

The bike was a complete wreck. A write-off. The insurance company said it would cost as much to repair the bike as to actually buy a new one and so they recommended buying a new one. T flatly refused. No matter how much time, effort or cost, he would have none other than his bike. And so it was resurrected.

When their son was born, he rode around with them on the bike in a sling which M had designed and made. When he was old enough, they made a seat on the tank (the safest place on a bike for a child) and he spent many a happy hour sitting on the tank with his feet on the crash guard and his hands holding the inside of the bars. He knew when his Dad was coming home since the roar of the engine coming around the corner, would echo around the sleepy colony in Chennai.

Come 1992, T was posted to Bombay and, since public transport was the only sensible thing to use there at the time, the bike was taken and parked in his father’s garage in Chennai.

Over the years it stayed there. They returned from Bombay but the bike papers had been lost and, he being a stickler for rules and having no time at all to spare, it continued to stand in that garage.

The son wanted the bike from the time he was 12.

Come 16 he begged for it and they spent the next couple of years searching for the papers but no sign of them.

Come 18 they gave up and bought him a CBZ. It was the best bike on the street at the time and he loved it. But, his heart always lay with the bike that stood in his grandfather’s garage.

He left the city for another, then went abroad, sold his CBZ beforehand, spent a couple of years wandering around, came back and wandered around. All the while he searched for those papers but no luck. Briefly they turned up – found by an old friend in her house, apparently given to her many years ago to pay road tax and then forgotten.

And then they disappeared yet again.

Eventually, he moved to Bangalore. His heart always having been set on that bike, if he could not have that one, he would have another. He bought a Roadking.

When T was in town he saw it and a big smile lit up his face. He swung a leg over his son’s bike and shot off down the road before he could be warned that the brakes weren’t as great as they might seem. He returned a few minutes later with a glint in his eye.

Three weeks later he told his son he could do what he liked with the old bike.

The Yezdi still stood where it always had – for nineteen years.

Four Wednesdays ago it was loaded on to a truck, and after four tension-filled and abuse-riddled days, it finally landed in Bangalore. The transporters missed the first consignment on Wednesday so it only left on Thursday. Then the truck broke down along the way so it only reached on Friday evening. At which point the lorry driver ‘displaying initiative’ (for the first time in lorry-driver history) drove straight to the airport since he wanted to ship the major part of the consignment overseas. It was kept there overnight and finally reached his uncle’s place at 4 on Saturday.

The uncle in question is none other than the S Unc (described here http://beingthomas.wordpress.com/2010/02/05/the-men-who-make-it-possible/).

And I of course am that son.

On the 31st of July the bike finally landed in Bangalore. When we  checked the lorry, it had fallen over and the brake lever had been broken (@*&%*&$@!!!!!). But, other than that, she’s as beautiful as I remember her.

I’ve finally gotten my hands on it.

All she needs is a little TLC

Peer past the cobwebs and you might see what I do.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Things have come along since the 31st.

But that is for the next post.