Rediscovery of India: Biking across the scenic, chaotic north
Journalist Sabir Hussain’s debut book is an account of a four-week journey he made on his trusty 150cc motorbike from Delhi all the way to a remote hamlet in Kashmir. Here’s an excerpt.
Y AS NT FA and stay in touch,” Sudha tells me.
The tinge of worry in her voice is legitimate… The weather is tranquil. But there’s enough hint in the air that it will be a hot day, and I wish I had started earlier.
I leave home. The road is empty and I quickly pick up speed. I cross the Yamuna, flanking the rear of the iconic Red Fort and about 30 minutes later, I exit Delhi and head north towards Ambala. I calculate that it would take me about four hours to reach, and be a good place to stop for breakfast.
I cross a steady column of trucks of every dimension. A crimson sun rises over a hazy horizon. The air begins to get dusty. I make my first pit stop of the day about 45 minutes into the journey. It’s extremely warm to even wear a cotton balaclava under my helmet, so I tie a handkerchief around my face to keep out the dust from entering my nose. I also remember to wear my sunglasses, and resume my journey. J.K. Rowling’s Wizarding World is full of magical curiosities: A flying car, a hat that sings, an enchanted case and so much more. This small, deluxe pop-up book showcases three-dimensional renderings of some of the beloved curiosities from the Harry Potter films, including two pops related to the upcoming Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Pull out flaps will feature text that delves into the items on each spread.
I make good time to cross Karnal in two hours flat. It’s not yet 8 a.m. when I stop at a large dhaba for breakfast, instead of my scheduled halt at Ambala. The reason: it’s a bustling place where several motorists stop for breakfast, and by the logic of a frequent traveller on road, it means that the food will be freshly made. The waiters seem agile and obviously because the manager keeps a strict eye on each one to ensure that they serve the customers promptly. Unlike the west or even in many parts of India now, which serve fast food or uncooked ready meals, the dhaba is the quintessential roadside eatery found in North India, serving its regular fare of paranthas, rotis, dal, vegetable curries and syrupy, sweet lassi and milky tea. I stay for sometime after finishing my breakfast and then start again.
The haze refuses to lift, and the weather gets warmer. I pass Ambala, essentially a cantonment town, ahead of which, the sun finally breaks through with an intense fury. The temperature rises, but I am glad for small concessions, considering the highway is not crowded and I can ride at high speed.
A young rider on a Honda CBR 250 overtakes me and rides away like the wind. For a fleeting second, I want to race with him, but decide against it because my relic, albeit most trusted companion, the Suzuki 150cc Fiero wasn’t built for speed. It is made for creating history, is what I feel, and without sounding like an advertisement, it has always stood me in good stead. Anyway, the fact also is that if I had been younger, I might have given in to the temptation to race on the highway. But more than two decades of riding on dusty and risky terrains and my advancing age — I was 48 at the time of writing this book — has mellowed me. I decide to ignore the young man, but not without a tinge of jealousy! Let me reiterate, I do not blame my vehicle for not empowering me to press ahead — my bike has been a faithful and reliable companion and has seen me through seven expeditions to India’s northernmost frontier since 2001. Over the years, similar to lifelong companions in the journey of life, we have stuck together and survived the heat, torrential rains, mud, slush, rocks, snow and blizzards in some of the most inhospitable terrains on the planet. As the Honda disappears into the horizon, I tell myself to relax; it’s more about the journey and less about winning a race.
Let me make a confession. I have always wanted to own a Triumph Tiger, but its prohibitive price made it an impossible dream. Before starting on this solo expedition, I had even toyed with the idea of buying a new bike, but my loyalty to my old friend, my Fiero, made me stop in my tracks and I know I shan’t ever regret it.
It may sound apocryphal, but during my previous seven expeditions to Ladakh and Spiti valley in Himachal Pradesh since 2001, the only trouble I ever had with my bike was a flat tyre. The love for an old trustworthy companion notwithstanding, I don’t like surprises on the road, so I normally keep my motorcycle in good shape with the help of my mechanic, Surjit. For more than 10 years now, Surjit has worked his magic on the bike to make sure that it brings me back home after every expedition.
I agree that the Fiero is certainly not a hi-tech bike. But its constant vacuum carburetor works wonderfully — mandatory in high altitudes — and doesn’t allow over flooding of petrol, which can easily stall a motorcycle.
I cross a steady column of trucks of every dimension. A crimson sun rises over a hazy horizon. The air begins to get dusty. I make my first pit stop of the day about forty-five minutes into the journey. It’s extremely warm to even wear a cotton balaclava under my helmet, so I tie a handkerchief around my face to keep out the dust from entering my nose. I also remember to wear my sunglasses, and resume my journey.
Excerpted with permission from Battlefields and Paradise by Sabir Hussain, published byWestland Books