A time to ride...

The rains are here again and this is when while the city goes crazy, the roads leading out of it get even more sensual. The fields get green and where there used to be lay ditches, dried wells, dusty ponds and algae bottomed lakes, its soon going to be just water and water.

Red, ochre and brown, as earthy as most of us who ride - full to the brim and looking for release.

And the roads, oh the roads, the roads themselves. They look more as if they have been washed in the best detergent the R&B department could buy, displaying all their patterns, shades and tones when dry - or just look freshly laid when wet!

This is the time to ride, this is the time to ride, when the country roads are flanked by the dense green palisades of thorn, when the grass meadows are flush with button sized wild flowers in yellow, blue and pink, when every tank, kunta and cheruvu will be full, when riding through some blessed forest area, you will run into a wall of living, fluttering butterflies, when....

This is the time to ride, when after a hot (till then rain free) day, the first showers of rain seem to turn to steam when they hit the blazing tarmac, when after 3-4 days of a dry spell, you can literally hear the arrows and javelins that the heavens release sizzling into blunt-headed nothingness on the dusty earth, when at a sudden bend in some interior road you come onto a fresh water puddle on the tarmac, pure enough to drink and serving as the private pool of some rusty tailed, beady eyed Coucal, when what you thought was a shadow in the foliage turns out to be an intent on love Peacock, when you do not really know if you should ride or just stop and see the life all around you, when....

This is the time to ride, when with the blackheads gathering, the sun seems to become a bulb suffering from dipping voltage, observed by the way the glimmer of the centre nut gets lesser and lesser, when if you are far away from anywhere, the smell of rain sometimes becomes much more than a reason for thrill, but a cold clammy fear gnawing at your heart, when a cloudburst decides to become something more and even as you are riding on and riding blind, your face wet, your eyes streaming, you engine note suddenly deeper, you just realise that, you still are not out of the deluge, not yet....

Yes, the monsoons are over Hyderabad, they are over the Deccan and its a time to ride. But then, when wasn't it a time to ride?

Hollanders Green, by the blue

"Bheemunipatnam is probably more myth than substance, more worthy of being talked about in somebody's cool drawing room, than being ridden through...", thoughts like these irritably run through my head as I am caught up in a traffic jam on the road that winds through this sleepy little town.

I hope I will not lack for your empathy when you consider that I was just looking for some peace and quiet and a chance to hunt out some fresh sea food (and, of course a cold beer). I certainly hadn't bargained on having to clutch and de-clutch and bang on the gears for close to 15 minutes, under a hot, burning sun, sweating profusely all the while. 

The reason for the traffic jam is almost as historic as the town itself. The road that passes through it is narrow and if that wasn't enough, has a clock tower literally bang in its middle. But then, when there is a wealth of so many happy faces (and historic structures) of what bother is a traffic jam?

By the by, the jam sorts itself out, with no one hurting the venerable clock tower and finally I am in a position to park my by now very hot Bullet at the Bus Stand. The road curves to the left here and as I know from past experience, the blue and balmy sea is to the right.

No, I am not telling this story straight, so let me begin at the beginning.

I discovered Bheemunipatnam (Bheemili for everyone I know in Vizag) pretty much by serendipity when, something like 11 years back, I took a bus to it from Rushikonda (as opposed to one to Vizag) to just kill some time while gazing at the sea-fringed road. And thus, history was made.

While you excuse my mock megalomania, some key facts about Bheemunipatnam. India's second oldest municipality and allegedly the fore-runner to Vizag's position (in terms of maritime importance) on this coast, it is situated around 30 kms from Vizag on the same road that takes you to GITAM College and the now famous APTourism Resort.

Now that I have stated all that for the record, let me tell you about the road itself. As roads go, this is probably one of the longest stretches "by the beach" in India and one that twists and turns, dips and peaks and also goes straight. So while you are passing toddy palms which no one owns and coconut groves with boundaries of thorn, you have adequate reason to ride really slow, what with the blue and the green all around. There is of course the added advantage of the roar of the sea crashing on a coastline that is rich in rocky headlands and small, crescent moon shaped bays.

Bheemunipatnam is supposed to have originated in the days of the Pandavas (it is named after Bheema) and also has a couple of old temples to boost that claim. That aside, its recent history probably starts from the 16th century, when a boat load of Dutch dropped anchor with the intention of making the lovely harbour (the River Gosthani meets the Bay of Bengal here) theirs.

What followed thereafter was the establishment of a Dutch trading post, from where the galleons used to carry away" the wares of Inde". Proof of all this is has always been very much in my face: there's an old church (dating back to the 1850's) that stands mournfully amidst slanting coconut trees, a lighthouse whose light is no longer lit, a cemetery that looking positively gloomy in the evenings, and two of the most noticeable buildings in Bheemili. The Municipal Choultry (now, thankfully a preserved structure) overlooking the Bus Stand and the Port Shipping Office (currently in use as the Municipal Office) that stands besides a now sand-ravaged harbour.

Incidentally, the Municipal Office is flanked by old warehouses, with most having still intact roofs. However, quiet a few are are now just thick-built walls standing forlornly, grown over with weeds and serving as perches and nests for Parakeets and Rock Pigeons that suddenly explode in flashes of brilliant colour, even as you are getting the zoom on your camera just right.

Just besides (Bheemunipatnam, after all, is pretty small) is a rumoredly haunted cemetery called Hollanders Green. As the name indicates, it started as a resting place for the dead Dutchmen but one can see many English graves too... and and some are fairly recent, dating to the 1930's. Hollanders Green certainly makes for a poignant visit: it has the sepulchral distinction of having the oldest Christian grave in Andhra Pradesh and yes, the graves of the early Dutchmen with their ornate cenotaphs does give one a bit of the willies.

A bit away from Bheemili, on the road to Vizag is a mini Chambal, called Erra Matti Dibbalu, literally meaning Red Earth Hillocks. This place is pretty much more famous than anything else in Bheemili, thanks to the fact that any number of Tollywood songs have been picturised here. The place is a nice maze, of red earth hillocks, red sand walkways (I did manage to ride into it) and the usual Rock Pigeons and Parakeets exploding out of the ochre / red tableau framing the horizon. While these are certainly not as grand in scale as the "Wild West", they are a  wilderness -- of grottos and wind-eroded mini mesas -- nonetheless.

Which means that if you are bored of the cemetery, the ruins and whatever else, you can simply take a hike into Erra Matti Dibbalu and (bless the thought) be lost for ever from civilization.

After all, I keep trying the same, almost every year or so, whenever I have to go to Vizag.

Tame fish and wild mangoes

Somewhere in the watershed of my dusty hair, a bead of sweat gathers and then flows down the bridge of my nose, converting the full-stop of a fresh Bottu into a watery comma, as I set out with a camera for the stream bed of River Machkund.

I am at Matsyagundem, a little known place reached by negotiating 12 kms of an atrocious bullock cart track off and away from the road that leads to Paderu in the Araku Valley.

Mythology wise, this is Dandakaranya, geography wise, this is Andhra Pradesh, ethnography wise, this is deep tribal hinterland.

Funnily enough, though its sunny (stiflingly hot, too) and spectacular photography weather now, I had reached Matsyagundem with my jacket drenched and my helmet's visor beaded with rain. Very much a throwaback to the Araku Valley of yore, when torrential rainfall was the norm here, all year through.

Matsyagundem is where the river Machkund once had a natural obstruction of stone on its course, creating a pool that used to be full of tame fish. In this day and age,however, the river itself is very, very dry and there is a concrete monstrosity all across the river's breadth, with a view-point (but of course!) bang above it.

Naturally, I avoided the view-point and rode to the small shrine just besides, attracted by the huge wild mango (very sour when raw and additionally acidic and fibrous when ripe) trees and the lack of any fancy sign-boards. And before I can turn off the ignition, I have a smiling priest walking towards me - clad in a Gamcha / Gavancha, unshaven and stubbled like me and equally sunburnt too.

The shrine turned out to be one of Lord Shiva (incidentally my favorite God, so I happily enjoyed a small Puja in my name and collected the aforementioned Bottu) and the priest turned out to be totally lacking in any airs whatsoever, so I decide to take up the offer of water and tea, while I chat him up.

Within minutes, we are surrounded by a gaggle of wide eyed children (most in blue shorts and white shirts), obviously playing hooky from school and household chores and even as I am asking about the state of the rains and the success of the view-point, I have a long line of volunteers getting ready to take me to see the fish.

A flight of steep stairs winds down to the Machkund, and as I gingerly make my way down behind my carefree guides, the priest locks the temple for the day and follows us. The stairs are flanked by huge brown boulders on which I can spot elephants sketched in white paint, but then these are no Mammoths or Cave paintings, just the BSP election symbol.

The Machkund is atrociously dry and there are not many pools where I can see even tadpoles, what to speak of leviathan-sized tame fish! The priest is with us by now and tells me in evident pain that some people up stream had poisoned the waters and most of the fish have died. But this simple man of God knows his fish quite well, and leads me over and across half of the stony bed till we are at a deep crevice among the boulders. Everybody in my smiling escort party points down into the slippery crevice, and a medley of commentary breaks out -- with strands of Oriya, Telugu and (a smattering of) Hindi.

The descent into the crevice looks positively fishy and I am scared of being stuck if I fall, but I still try bending down as much as I can and then realise that this will require me shooting with the flash, something I am neither equipped for, or like.

But then, I can make out some fairly huge and scaly things churning the waters in the crevice and mostly in order to please everyone around, light up the hollow with the brilliant Vivitar flash.

Maybe the flash worked in some prophetic way, or some other divine intervention was at work -- the priest decided to get a bit more involved and jumped into the act, with half a coconut in his hand, descending onto the same ledge where I am carefully standing. There isn't room enough for his temple-treading bare feet and my size 11 Nikes, so he stands on mine, banging the coconut against the rock and then throwing the white kernel into the waters, while intoning, "Aa Re, Aaa Rey!"

And man, oh man, the fishes do decide to surface, roiling the waters in a feeding frenzy, with at least a couple of them at least as big as my arm!

I am again painfully aware of being stared at; so I again bend down into the hollow while the priest scampers out of the way, and we again we do the same thing -- this time in somewhat better synchronisation.

The flash goes off and a couple of tame fishes are finally recorded for posterity.

Cramped and shaking in the knees, I decide to call it a day and we all make it back to the temple. O f course, after some of the kids try leading me to other similar crevices. The priest invites me to stay the night there itself with him, but I am intent on making it to Jagdalpur by nightfall, so I quiz him about the road, even as I pack the camera into its carrying case.

A wave of the hand all around and then I am out of Matsyagundem, headed for Jalaput and the Orissa border, even as the young scamps who should have been in school chase me out of the temple complex.

And in fitting with the clime, its throwaback time again, as a fine frieze of rain starts falling.

May it rain, I pray; may that concrete montrosity get washed away, I pray.

Old poems, new motifs

Dry Days

Parched hearts,
and thirsty souls,
all of them
share in common,
long forgotten flows of love
or release, or just being spent.

The instant brings memories
of butterflies
dragonfly moths
even water lilies
like nightmares riding
piggyback; on dreams.

Yet love
(and hope)
stay
somehow surviving
the dry days
waiting for spring,
to be spent, in release.

(I discovered this piece written on a scrap of paper, while going through other scraps of paper that have my ride logs. The handwriting is evidently mine, though I cannot really comprehend what made me write this and when. But I do think this poem (??) belongs here, though I wouldn't call it verse myself.)

Soul food on the mile-eating mode

For the stained in engine oil biker, the road is like nectar while the milestones (kilometrestones rather, though there's no word like that) are falling away, in a steady progression or a throttle-locked drone and food and drink are certainly not a priority.

And yet, once you are on the road, there are so many glorious chances to eat and drink "off" it. And literally get to know the state or region you are passing through by eating (and chance permitting) drinking original local fare.

Whenever I am out in the small villages of the Deccan, I never pass the chance to duck into small wayside Tea Shops and sample the assortment on display, the Mirchi Bajjis, the Pappu Vadas, the plain Vadas or even the funnily shaped (and uniquely stuffed) Samosas.

Whatever takes my fancy is soulfood still, even as the Tea I have already asked for is getting ready.

Speaking of Pappu Vadas, 6 of us ended up finishing close to 100 of these, caught up as we were in a small village near Ramappa Temple, owing to engine trouble.

An average Pappu Vada is as big as a cookie, and consists of small hand-shaped cakes of Gram paste( in which chopped green vegetables, onions and green chillies have been mixed) deep fried in oil till Golden (or Reddish) Brown. Across most of Telengana and Rayalaseema, these are yours to stuff your belly with for as less as Re 0.75 each, with as much of Chutney as you want to go along, of course free.

And when you consider that every single village you pass through has Pappu Vadas that are prepared differently with the Chutney varying from being a little sour to being positively fiery, you will know why I am sounding so much like some Cordon Bleu Chef.

Across most of Andhra Pradesh however, when you eat on the road and ask for something you remember (and thus order with a bit of salivation) having eaten elsewhere, do be ready for something that's pretty much different. Most of the Dhabas here are run by locals who have probably never eaten proper Punjabi fare, after all. I mean, your Dal Fry would most probably be anything but Tadka Dal. And the Tandoori Roti could make you wonder if its a Papad. Not that it really matters, when all you are looking for is a edible, wholesome and tasty bite. Which is why, I usually order Tandoori Roti and Dal Fry and leave the rest to the cook's mood and the style of cooking that's par for the course at that latitude and longitude.

And if that Dhaba happens to serve Chicken Biryani, which you order expecting to bite into a succulent piece of Chicken leg and loads of fragrant Basmati rice, don't brain the poor waiter if he gets you a plate of slightly spicy rice with cubes of fried chicken in it. Because, there is Hyderabadi Biryani and there are the Kurnool and Nellore (and so many other) variants.

More grist for your palate, more tales for you to recount, is of course the better attitude.

I am of course not saying that you do not get to eat authentic Andhra style food in Andhra. Sure, you do. If you land up in any of the interior towns in Cuddapah or Kurnool, you are all set for an adventure called Natukodi and what is called the food of the Palegars. Heavily spiced and meant to fill you up, this is an assortment that includes Naatukodi Pulusu, Raagi Balls, Jonna Rotis, Mudda Pappu and Potato and Brinjal curries cooked in the signature interior style. Natukodi Pulusu itself is something that you would either relish or simply end up getting Diarrhea from. After all it usually has more Red Chilly than it has oil and more Chicken than it has onions!

And if you are lucky enough to have a friend in a village, do camp there for a day to know what exactly the hardy farmers usually eat. I once had Naatukodi with Jonna Roti as breakfast, Naatukodi and Rice and Pappu as lunch and then Naatukodi and Chappatis and Mutton Kheema as dinner.

Burp.

Which is exactly why I avoid eating around big towns and do not stop by Dhabas which are certainly not Punjabi Dhabas when riding in Andhra Pradesh.

But then, India is more than Andhra Pradesh and I have been lucky enough to ride around a bit, getting to taste food from places around, on the road.

In Goa for the inaugural Rider Mania ride, Amit and I literally blew a fortune in the designer hotels and cafes ordering up dishes like Shark Pulli Manchu before we realized that these hotels were not meant for hungry bikers. On the way back we did get to relish sea food all along the Goan Coast, with a lovely dinner where we had loads and loads of fried Pomfret near Karwar a mmmmemory that I will never forget. Thereafter, we both realized that there is Biryani and there is Biryani, when we had to make a meal of a dish of rice, raisins, cashewnuts and some pieces of Chicken, on asking for Biryani at a wayside hotel at Honnavar.

(The above-mentioned mmmmemory doesn't get digested owing to the fact that I haven't managed to ride on the western coast thereafter. And however much I ride on the Vizag coast, a night out on the beach somehow never happens!)

And then there was that blessed getaway in September 2005, 28 days on the road when I did not eat at the same table (or Charpoy) twice. Even as I write this, I seem to be reliving the tastes - authentic Punjabi Dhaba food - awesome Dal Fry ( Tadka, with more Rajma than Dal in it) and Rotis all along GT Road, outbound and inbound, the simple Thalis - Roti, Daal, Chawal and Sabji all through Himachal, Tibetan food and Rajma Chawal in Bharatpur, Leh and Ladakh and probably the best Samosas I have ever eaten, in the Kashmir Valley.

Naturally then, I did not enter many sign-boarded hotels while riding back through Rajasthan, choosing to stop and rest at wayside eateries, while the small lads in charge would cook up a rustic Thali. The dough kneaded in front of me, the Chullah lit in front of me and then hot Phulka after Phulka (with a dab of Ghee) landing up in my plate, while the lads would as usual want to know who I am, where I am headed and so on.

Soul food it is, being on the road in this lovely country, the kilometers on the odo as well as the rustic eating and drinking.

Burp.

Cheriyal Paintings

Cheriyal in Warangal District, located 100 odd kms from Hyderabad is best described as a village that doesn't have a town-planning department.

It just has one main street (thankfully not given a grandiose name yet), the usual fortified Police Station, Bus Stand, other etceteras and rows of shops all along the above mentioned main street / road (incidentally, abutting SH1). My first (and second and third) impressions of Cheriyal were that I have somehow managed to stray into Hyderabad's Pot Market. Thanks to the profusion of multicoloured plastic pots stringed up and very much on display in most of the abovementioned shops.

But then, I hadn't wandered here on my noticeably loud motorcycle to gather material for a treatise on pots and pans and civic planning.

My quest is directed at finding the residences of two families of
artists in this village.

Because these are the remnants of a lineage that goes back to the 15th Century and the only ones keeping alive a school of scroll painting that takes its names from this village (now, town?), the Cheriyal school of scroll paintings.

Popular (and APTourism) belief is that the Cheriyal Scrolls depict stories from the Puranas and other Hindu legends and thrived primarily under the patronage of the Kakatiyas of Warangal.

But from what I had read about them, the scrolls seemed to have been more than just that. At one time, these scrolls used to be a very important part of the sociological and cultural milieu of Telengana (modern day districts of Karimnagar, Warangal, Mahbubnagar, Medak and Kurnool in Andhra Pradesh). And painted to narrate legends about the origin of a particular caste and the heroic deeds of one of its legendary heroes.

Some of the scrolls did depict episodes from Hindu mythology, but as is typical of India's cultural mosaic, the heroes of the caste in question were painted into the narrative through the brush strokes of the artist.

As is also typical of the great Indian tradition of storytelling, these scrolls were used as a visual aid by picture storyteller minstrels, usually to the accompaniment of folk songs and music.

Coming back to my own narrative, I got down to enquiring about the scroll painting families though I did not know the exact Telugu words for scrolls or paintings. Naturally, I was directed to a shop of the village's most famous "painter" where I could notice a couple of renditions of Raja Ravi Verma's calendars in Oil paint on woodboard amongst signboards, banner ads and number plates. I ask some more questions, (now slightly modded) and am finally asked to retrace my steps and turn right into a lane of the village.

After talking to probably half the people on the street (okay, road), I think I am finally on the right Kuccha road into the right lane. And I must say it was now time for me to form my fourth and fifth impressions, even while riding on, negotiating my way through bicycles, goats, buffaloes and the usual naked toddlers scampering
around. This part of Cheriyal did look a bit more like a village! I could even see a couple of houses that must have been at least 3-4 generations old depicting the typical Telengana style, with carved Wooden-Pillar Verandahs and tiled roofs and stone walls!

Yahoo!!

Most importantly, I also note a couple of 80 year olds (the Telengana Sun makes one assume lots of things, especially age) sunning themselves, their drooping moustaches as white as the turbans of their Head-dresses, which for me is the most symbolic mnemonic of the hardy village life of Telengana.

I finally manage to reach the residence of the painters and discover that both the families live in houses adjoining each other and (of course, of course) both the gentlemen have gone to Hyderabad for some "important" work. Incidentally, these neighbours who missed their date with my chronicling of all things quaint and quixotic are brothers.

Sure, there were a lot of stones handy but I couldn't see any crows.

The object of my researching questions was now the lady of the house with a door Jamb that looks more artistic than that of the house my Grandfather lived in Vizag for 35 years. And before my helmet came off and my SLR came into view, she was busy filling colours in a horizontal scroll that was one sixth of the circumference of my Engine Oil-stained riding pants leggings and two-thirds the length of my sun burnt arm.

By the way, when these scrolls had a bigger role to play than drawing Oohs and Aahs from some pseudo art collector's inebriated guests, they normally used to be around a Metre in width and ten in length. This lady with the willing smile and the ready quotes, however sadly is also a housewife in a hurry and needs to attend to her chores, so I need to really ration my curiosity, and my well-meaning questions.

First off, she vindicates my knowledge by saying that her husband's family hails from the legendary Nakashi Venkataramiah and has been based in Cheriyal from 1940 when they migrated to it from the temple town of Vemulawada. I ask some more questions and considering I am a prospective customer, the lady controls her impatience. I get to know that the canvas she is treating with bright colours is cloth treated with kaolin, gum and starch. By the by, I also gather that the paints
they use these days are usually store bought and the very concavity of the canvas is a dead give-away as in if this material is used to make a scroll, it certainly cannot be rolled as a scroll!

But then, who am I to judge, the rectangular scroll that I bought isn't a scroll painting at all as in it depicts a single episode of the entire story that the scroll should depict! And anyway, one certainly cannot expect to buy a completely genuine Cheriyal scroll painting the way one can buy mass produced Kalamkari bedsheets.

In fact, in the days gone by the painters used to be given the cloth for
the scroll and were also paid in cash, clothing, grain and a goat. Which does make my overall experience of paying Rs.150 for a 15 cms by 10 cms piece of what is at least something out of a genuine Cheriyal artist's home, really something worth writing about. And yes, given a chance (and the time) I will again be in Cheriyal with the amount of cash I need to pay in my pocket, a goat tied onto my pillion and my saddlebags heaped with grain.

After all, at least my mother would be really pleased to a level of bliss when she will not ask me why I keep "wasting my time", if the protagonist in the real Cheriyal painting that I get commissioned happens to be my departed Grandfather.

No?

April, May and June

The three months when only the mentally touched (whose number is thankfully on the rise) plan escapades on the Indian highways.

The three months when some really funny things happen on the road.

Like, your bike may suddenly wobble, fishtail or generally behave as if it is a bit touched by the sun and you realize that the asphalt you have been riding on all along has suddenly gone semi-solid.

Or, when you stop to wash your face somewhere on the road and do it in a hurry, your eyes start burning. Because, inadverently, you have washed the salt of your sweat from your forehead and brows, into your eyes.

Or, when you have been sensible enough not to ride out and then run into a mate who was mad enough to, you get to see his dried lips, his bloodshot eyes and his sunburnt arms, even as you are hearing him say "Man, it was bloody, awesome hot!".

The three months in question are of course, April, May and June.

But then, these are also the months when you are guaranteed maximum sunshine, minimum traffic and shockingly sensational dawns to ride out into and backlit, cloud-limned sunsets to stop and gaze at.

For me of course, these three months have always been a personal muse, right from the days I have had AP10R8691.

April, here in the Deccan is when you suddenly realize that the days are hotter than it was in March. And the best time for a night ride. Since the road is still relatively cool in the nights.

May is when you cannot sleep, especially if you have been partying more than you have been riding and when the mosquitoes decide to take advantage of the power cuts to dive-bomb you, the best thing to do of course is not delude yourself into believing that you can still sleep, but just to sneak out onto the road.
June is in its own way, a bit" hat ke", the time when the showers start, the clouds start teasing with squalls and thundershowers almost every day, the weather cools down a bit and being on a road you know means that a part of your being is playing Met Office. Wondering if it will rain if you are suddenly greeted by the dark leadening of skies, wondering if it is raining after that rise on the road you know of if you are riding through a heavy downpour, wondering if that hotel / dhaba you know of besides some turnoff is the best place to stop and order some chhai, while you wait for your rain-drenched undies to dry.

If you are photographically challenged (and I have been for somewhere close to 2 years now), these are the months to get out of the city. Because, you are guaranteed a different sight of God Light, every evening. And you get around 2 complete hours to frame, compose and play with shutters and apertures, if you want to take that lovely "awesome" picture of an old temple, a disused bridge or just some rock-formation besides the road. 2 entire hours of slanting light, which will not over-expose your photographs, which will not flare and spoil a perfect composition; 2 entire hours when you can leisurely peer out of your camera's viewfinder and wait for the colour tones on rock, brick&mortar or landscapes to become magical!

Jeez, did I not just get carried away?

Naturally then, I have been on some lovely rides in these three months. Apart from the three rides to Vizag (and those crazy returns to Hyderabad), there were some other rides which do belong in my all time "memory bank",

1.) The ride to Karimnagar (with Chandra as a pillion) that me Amit and Rohit undertook in April 2003. Riding through the night (hey, there was a moon in the sky), to finally reach the Srirarm Sagar Bund. And then riding on the Bund itself through a billion pesky early morning insects. Then riding back, losing each other and finding each other, all of us fighting sleep in their own ways.

2.) The ride to Cheriyal and to Mulukanoor (through interior roads that seem to lose themselves in scrub and fields) in May 2004. This was one of those slow rides when I even stopped to give a lift to some villager, whose head-dress ruled out my mouthing "You got a helmet?", and then onwards rode even slower thanks to the running commentary I got about the cost of land per acre, the irrigation policies of the government, the chances of formation of Telengana and so on.

3.)The awesome ride to Samudralingapuram with Supradeep in April 2004. Supradeep running in a new Piston and me a bit TLC minded as I had new Piston rings, both of us basically tag-teaming, without getting into three digit speeds, outbound Hyderabad on the Mango-lined Nagpur highway, stopping at Ramayampet, then getting off the highway, intent on being inbound Hyderabad by the Karimnagar road, to suddenly come across a quaint village called Samudralingapuram, in a quaint hollow of terraced fields and Toddy palms. We joined the Karimnagar road through Siddipet, reaching Hyderabad, easily at 9.30 in the night, totally clocking around 260 kms in a bit below 5 hours of riding time. Exactly why I term it awesome, considering that most of the time we barely touched 90kmph.

4.) The second ride to Uma Maheshwaram, exactly a year back, i.e. in June 2005. To see a friend's newborn at Nagarkurnool. And then to get lost among the badlands around Achampeta in search of one of the entrances to Srisailam. This ride was one where I got closest ever to a bird (considering that I have a simple camera and no telephoto lenses), maybe the bird itself was touched by the heat. And then of course the night ride back to Hyderabad, from somewhere near Kurnool with no low beam (too tired to change the bulb) and no horn (thanks to a dead battery).

Of course there have been any number of rides apart from these that I can remember. Mostly "fast clips" on the Karimnagar or the Adilabad stretches, where I usually have had no specific reason, but just the need to be on the highway. And I must say, relatively speaking, even from a pure riding perspective, it is fun to be on the road in April, May and June. After a point, the heat just becomes another irritant to live with and anyway as long as one is riding, there is a breeze.

Sure, most of the time, that breeze is like someone has opened a furnace door on you.

But then again, madness is a relative word, isn't it?

Arboreal Moon

I still remember my first ride to Vizag as if it was yesterday. The usual confusion of last minute packing and unpacking with Kishore at my place to oversee it all, the long wait for it to stop raining, the early morning departure at 2.30 and then the ride through puddles of water till I was on the chaotic Vijayawada highway -in the face of every Trucker and Buswallah hurrying inbound to the charms of Biryani land.

This really manic ride had happened sometime in July 2002. Once on the highway, I conveniently forgot where I was headed and went boating in a Shrimp pond and thereafter dozed off besides a canal for three odd hours. Evening found me on the road again and I had a run in with some louts (15 odd in number and me alone) who chased me for 40 or so kilometres on the highway after Rajahmundry. Then I lost my way, was helped by a trucker who asked me to tail him and finally decided to sleep at some non-descript place called Jaggayapetta. This blessed sanctuary on a dark, still being built highway (I think this was also the first ride when I discovered what it means to have a "black and blue" butt) of course had only one lodge where everyone down from the owner to the watchman were displaying full-blown gay tendencies. To cut the story short, I reached Vizag sometime at 11.00 in the afternoon, the day after.

The second time I rode to Vizag, I left sometime in the afternoon, of course it was again summer, I think it was in May 2003. This time, the tentative plan {I am sure you would doubt my vocabulary seeing how I abuse a word as nice as "plan"} was to shack out besides the road at some Dhaba around Vijayawada and then ride out early in the morning. It turned out to be something else altogether, I couldn't find the Dhaba I had earmarked for the stop, decided to sleep besides the highway (near Eluru) and even snored for an hour or so, before the Highway Patrol stopped by and politely asked me to prove to be sane. Finally, I managed to find a Dhaba where they did allow me to sleep, but it was too hot and too mosquito rich a night for me to do any slumbering. To cut this story short, I reached Vizag at around 10.30 in the afternoon, again on the day after.

Just for the record, on the second ride, I had a fairly bodacious moon winking at me for most of the night.

Thus it was, that the stage was set for the grandest and most succulent of my night rides ever. I am of course talking of my third ride to Vizag. The reason for going there was pretty simple, I had to go to Bhubaneswar to attend a marriage and I wasn't getting train tickets. Eashwar (he's from Vizag) promised to get me a ticket from Vizag onwards, so I finally managed to convince my elder brother around 3.00 in the afternoon and then managed to leave Paradise Cross Roads (Ajay came over and gave me his camera, a spare tube and a tool kit) at around 4.30, was on the highway by 5.15 and had an entire night stretching in front of me - with as usual, no fixed plans about where to stop or sleep.

I was riding after a long while, so just being on the highway was a heightened release, so naturally I cut out all the stops and it was around 220 kms by the odo when I stopped somewhere for a Tea break and the obligatory leg stretching session. And that's when Lison sms'ed from Hyderabad asking me if I was game for a Dhaba ride on the Medhchal stretch.

Grin.

It was just 9.15 or so, the ride till now had been just marvelous so I promised Lison that I will keep him in the loop and hit the road again. And then all of a sudden the realization hit me. That, I wasn't out on another small night ride, but that I could ride all the way to Vizag (and probably even beyond). And that there was a full, incandescently brilliant moon up there in the heavens, lighting up my way.

Naturally, I just went moon mad, my body on the bike and on the road, but my being stalking the shadows of the trees and the shrubs and drinking in the glint of the moon off the water bodies, all in passing.

I rode the whole stretch from Vijayawada to Eluru without lights, it was so bright. I even managed to check the level of the petrol in the tank and examine my log (on a scrap of paper) by the moonlight, it was so bright.

Back then, the highway was still being widened 60 odd kms after Eluru and that is when the road deviated away, picking up some more character, when it passes through a lovely maze of small villages, shrimp ponds, canals and rice fields. And all that character was on display with a moon shining down on it! It is moments and hours and experiences like this that get frozen in one's being, out there on the road, especially when the road isn't a highway that's just a straight leting u rippppppp....

And then, it happened, I got four smses one after the other, the culprit being of course the fact that I was suddenly getting a signal, I wonder if all that vibration means a call, stop and pull the mobile out of my pocket and then forget all about the phone, the bike, the ride, every single thing. Because, I had stopped on a slight elevation on the road and all around me was a spectacular panorama that was simply magical. Waters from shrimp ponds, small tanks and the usual skein of canals and rice fields glinting silver in the moonlight, coconut palms so brightly lit that I could really make out the coconuts and behind and above it all, the moon itself, big, bright and bodacious. Fittingly enough, while I lit a smoke in the silent solitude of the night, I could see that very moon framed against gently waving coconut palm leaves, for all purposes, suddenly arboreal, very rooted for me to tarry a bit and enjoy its beauty.

Thereafter, the smoke vanquished, I just had to shake my head and move on again, though all of my being wanted to just ride down to the waters below and park the bike and just rest my back on it, watching the stars and the moonlit heavens.

By this time it was somewhere around 2.00 in the morning again and I was pretty intent on reaching Vizag by dawn, so I belted a bit, slowing down now and then on seeing the moon glinting on canal waters or rice paddies, till I got to Rajamundry.

This is a town that I have never really explored, but getting to Rajamundry has always been synonymous with having the choice of crossing the river Godavari in a different way, every time. The first time I rode on this stretch, I had passed through Rajahmundry town and crossed the Godavari by the heavily used road bridge. The second time, I had used the quaint, more than 100 years old, spectacular Dowleswaram Barrage and on this ride, I was on the rail cum road bridge, arguably, Asia's largest, with the road on top and the rails below. And boy, oh boy, was it fun? Considering that I have crossed the Godavari any number of times on a train of the same name, always at the window or the door, always flipping coins into the deep waters, always wondering what it would be like to float down below, float down to the Bay of Bengal itself.

Once beyond the Godavari and its silvery deeps, I was on the home stretch to Vizag (that's the coast where I was born) and by now the moon was sinking fast, headed for the horizon, almost as if it wanted to sleep. The last 100 kms to Vizag was me fighting sleep and belting on the relatively traffic free roads, and me slowing down wherever the highway was raised, enjoying almost an aerial view of coconut grove after coconut grove down below, interspersed by plaintains and Oil Palms.

Finally, I stopped, just before the turnoff that leads into Vizag through the Steel Plant, blessed by the sight of an amazing dawn that just begged to be photographed. A couple of shutter clicks and a smoke later, I said bye to the highway, entering the byepass that leads to the Steel Plant, riding through its campus to be in Vizag again, to park the bike at my uncle's house at 7.15 in the morning.

Really, whatttttarideeee!