Deadline Draas.

Draas is the last major speck on the map before the mighty Zozi La and the spectacular run into the vale of Kashmir, through honeymoonsy, touristy and picturesque Sonamarg. Draas is also the world's second most cold inhabited place, yet another one-road village of Dardis and other nomadic tribes with Henna dyed beards, vacant looks and duplicitous smiles that would put Bollywood villains to shame.

Riding out of Ladakh into Kashmir, my initial plan was just to pass through Draas in time to make it through the Military check post at Meeramarg. I was however, a bit at sea about the deadline to pass Meeramarg. At Manali, I was told I will be allowed through till 8.30 AM, at Leh this was whittled down to 6.30 AM and finally at Kargil, I was scared sleepless when told that it closes down at 5.00 AM!

Naturally, I was out of my warm (relatively speaking) hotel bed in Kargil, at the uncivilized hour of 2.00 in the morning and the temperature was of course anything but warm. I get the fully laden Bullet off its main stand; three odd kicks and nothing happens, I put the choke on and kick again and the bike sputters, starts, misses, sputters and then bursts into its reassuring song.

Kargil's economy is largely dependent on the brave souls who hike from here into Zanskar and God only knows wherever else, and of course, the Great Indian Army. And, as with most frontier towns, it is not a place meant for early morning somnambulism. In my case however, the intense cold ensures that I don't have to contend with too many of man's best friend (the Bhutia mountain dogs are great shaggy creatures with yellowed fangs -- the sight of which would make even the most hard-bitten of explorers take off in a gallop) chasing me as I rode around in circles before finding the road to Draas.

I had heard a lot about this road. It twists and turns with the LOC and there are signboards all along,  dryly announcing, "Beware, you are under enemy observation". Moreover, since our well-meaning neighbor watches down from behind strategically placed guns, there are no lights anywhere.

The cold was growing every minute and I was not using my gloves, considering that the blasted things were impeding clutching and braking. For footwear, all I had on were thin canvas shoes, with just a simple set of woolen socks underneath; the Gum Boots I had picked up at Manali bungeed down, as I wasn’t expecting any water-crossings.

Five minutes out of Kargil and I was frozen to the bone and cursing away to glory, my neck numb and my legs hugging the bike for whatever warmth its petrol-fired heart could gift me.

Usually, I would have just hunkered down and belted away, getting to my destination faster, but that was impossible here, with the narrow road twisting and turning, the stars for most part blocked out by the dark brooding ridges all around and my headlight’s glimmer just a bit more than that of a guttering candle.

There was no traffic on the road that I could tail and when I would slow down to pass through the military camps, all I could usually see (in the ghostly wash of my flickering headlight) was a milestone indicating that I am on the right road, or when a bit more luckier, some friendly sentry’s hand going up in the instinctive greeting only a biker gets.

Then, it happens; I take a curve too fast, the road straightens on to a bridge, I hit a speed breaker I can’t see, the bike’s angle and the heavily laden carrier don’t help and its really touch and go as I head towards the railings and the dark waters below.

I have never been good at reconstructing such scrapes on the road, but it was either my momentum or my riding instinct that saved me. I had cut across the bridge diagonally, finally braking inches from the end of the road.

Whew!

Before I can get off the bike, a torch shines into my face. It’s a brave Jawan of the Great Indian Army, firm and solicitous at the same time, wanting to know who I am, why I am out at this time of the morning and where I am headed. I answer in a tone that is both firm and polite (and slightly aggrieved) as he checks my papers, jots down my details and then waves me on, with a smile that only the sane can bestow on the cerebrally challenged.

For now I am just intent on hanging on and counting the milestones till I get to Draas. There is no way I could have sped on this stretch; the road was just a bit more than a patch of gravel with water flowing over it.

The last 15 odd kms to Draas are still frozen in my being, my hands were bereft of feeling, forcing me to put them one by one on the cylinder head, wait till the engine burnt through the numbness, then ride a bit and then repeat it all over again. Time to time, I would swivel my head to get whatever bearings I could, see the ridges on my right illuminated by big yellow splotches of moving light and wonder grimly if it was the Pakistanis getting ready to shell.

Somewhere along, my bike hit reserve.

Finally, the road sloped down and became a street with water flowing through it and I was in Draas before I realized it. I made a beeline for the only street-side eatery that was open; managed to mouth the word “Chhai” and practically thrust my hands into the welcome blue and golden flames of a Kerosene stove.

It was just 4.45 AM, I had met my deadline with Draas, though Meeramarg was still relatively far and I was now out of petrol. I also got to know that there is no petrol bunk in Draas and I may have to go back to Kargil to get it.

But I wasn’t greatly worried, I was just riding through, and the mountain had been kind to me all along, as it is to those who "believe". For now, it was time to let the warmth seep into me, time to savor yet another glass of Tea, besides the road, in yet another one-street outpost…………

Why do I ride solo?

At 3.00 in the morning, when most of the world is fast asleep and I would rather ride, well naturally it has to be solo.

Or if I manage to get caught up with work or some other four letter word to the extent that I am finally on the highway with the Indian night {and its killer traffic} in front of me, calling someone to ride along wouldn't exactly be a bright idea, would it be?

All said and done, however, I do not really think I ride solo.

For one, the exhaust of the Bullet is always there, now a growl, now a scream, now a muted thump.

For another, there are the passing Trucks and Buses {and their slipstreams}, each intent on its own journey, each different in its own way.

And of course there are the people I get to meet. People who suddenly become as important as breakfast, lunch or the Chhai break. People who get so intimately burnt in the being that I am sure I can pick them out of a thousand similar faces, even years down the line.

In my own way, I have experienced first-hand, how the Bullet helps in breaking down barriers and making solicitious friends out of strangers, be it the villager on a bicycle trundling his way into his fields, the policeman doing duty at a city roundabout or the student who saves something like 5 Rupees since he managed to hitch a ride to his college at the periphery of a small, one-street town.

In Chattisgarh, it was a officious looking type who stopped in the middle of nowhere and tried helping me out with a persistent starting problem.

All through Ladakh, whenever I would see a truck or a Military Green heavy vehicle, by some innate synchronisation both the concerned driver and I would raise our hands at the same time.

And also smile at each other.

In Rajasthan as in other parts of the country, there would be the Dhaba waalahs, the owners who would prevail on me to sleep there, guaranteeing my safety, my luggage's safety and my Bullet's safety; the kids who work at Dhabas requesting that their snaps be taken and the nightwatchman who would wake me up with early morning tea.

I do not know if I have ridden enough to say this, but I do not think one rides solo when one rides a Bullet.

I ride alone and I ride a Bullet too.

One country, two wheels. One Bullet, a million intense moments.

I am yet another average guy who lives yet another average life.

But I am also someone who has been bitten by the urge to ride. And bitten hard enough to have covered something like 75,000 kms across this beautiful country, in a bit less than 4 years.

Of course, on the same bike, a Royal Enfield A-350.

I really don't know if I am a writer first and a biker next.

Or a biker first and a traveler next.

At times, I wonder how I have changed because of this obsession with the road and my A-350, whether I have changed for the better or for the worse, whether it is something that I should learn to control or just give in to.

And at other times, I am awash with happiness and nostalgia; happy that I have seen so much of this beautiful country already, nostalgic because, I still haven't managed to ride to so many places.

I intend to publish my thoughts about the road here.

I intend to try and chronicle all my trip logs, though that may take some time doing, considering that I am not someone who is famous for his sense of order and method.

I hope this will be a task I can look forward to in complete happiness.