“Anywhere the wind blows, doesn’t really matter to me…” well now, it does. Freddie Mercury must’ve said (actually sang) those words just to make his Bohemian Rhapsody sound better, but to someone who climbed a hill with the most uncomfortable ‘driving’ shoes and a wish in her heart, it makes a lot of difference. Why, you are soon to find out.
That was the day when it was officially announced that our beloved Jazz’s tenure with us was over and it shall go back to where it belongs very soon, this little trip of ours was the last one and it ought to be good. So along with the Christmas mistletoe, Jazz’s last carnival in the CI headquarters was accompanied by some flying, some speed, some bumps, some berries and a lot of excitement.
After Himalayan fishes, Lonavala’s chikki, zorb balls and horse rides, Alibag’s crazy jet-skis, banana boats and kayaks and Rishikesh’s holy white water rafting, Jazz had marked her presence in the hydrosphere and stratosphere and now was the time for atmosphere! So, Mahabaleshwar was the destined location and Paragliding (!!!!!!!!) was on cards. After about a week’s Google search, homework and recce, Jazz and me were prepared to fly somewhere over the rainbow. Here’s a brief account of how we celebrated our Christmas.
The journey was a miniscule 120 kms, so we planned to have an easy start to the day and left Pune when sun shone bright after rubbing its eyes off the morning fog. Gliding about the old Katraj highway, we hit Pasarni ghat and saw a couple of gliders over our head. This was enough for us to visualize in the nth of a second how our day was going to be. With “Sweet child of mine” running on the USB, Jazz enjoyed the loop of dedication I had on offer, while I excused myself through the weekend traffic and made my way towards Panchgani to meet my wings. Reaching Sydney point (Mahabaleshwar sure gets an Oscar for having such interesting names of places worth a sigh), we were asked to wait and pray to Lord Indra (the Hindu God of wind) to bestow us with some good wind for a safe and fine take off. Then we had wind, but like a juxtaposition of thoughts in my mind- flowing in all directions and absolutely unsafe and least recommended for a flight (the reference to the song applies here). After about 90 minutes of sitting and chit-chatting about the Jazz with fellow fliers, the much awaited announcement about commencing of flights was made.
Paragliding is actually a sort of recreational sport where the flier, much to the mercy of wind, controls the direction of the glider with the strings, somewhat like flying a ginormous kite. The height is however governed by how strong the wind is, but at the same time very strong current is a strict no no. A flier can shoot in the sky independently after a formal training but first time fliers like me must be accompanied by a trainer. Gearing up in the harness, we took baby steps downhill. The little tip-toes transformed into giant leaps and in seconds I could see myself going down the valley, with no contact left with the ground whatsoever and the sight which followed later was indescribable. I was in air. I was flying!
After I had successfully been in air for over 5 minutes and all my nightmares of a failed attempt at flying and crashing down the hill were buried in thin air, I wanted to call my mother and tell her how much I love her (for this appeared as a re-birth to me after that exaggerated near-death experience). And then, I wanted to post a poser update on networking website about how good it feels to experience weightlessness despite being pulled by gravity, but the very thought of letting go off my harness to reach my pocket gave me shivers and I marked this task in the to-do list in my mind. Sitting some 100 feet above the tallest tree visible, I could see Jazz amidst the colours of other gliders lying and waiting for their next prospect to accompany the birds. I have never suffered from altophobia, so looking down at a green carpet of pines waiting for Santa this year, was nothing more than a triumphant feeling of looking at the world as how God sees it.
After 15 minutes of being on top of the world (quite literally), it was time for us to come back to the ground of reality and the trainer accompanying me started pulling the strings in as we headed back to those who stood looking at us and passing awes of envy. The glider flapped like an eagle’s wings before coming back to its nest and we landed a few steps away from the same place where we took our flight from. The landing was a reverse with a thud jump and some hurried running with the glider behind, before reaching a final stand-still. I turned around and my smile depicted the stamp I had left on the sky.
Great as it was, but this just wasn’t enough of a farewell to my friend in good times, the Jazz. Thanking the crew and wishing others waiting for their turn a safe flight, we headed towards making our day as thrilling as it could possibly get. As how everyone knows it, Mahabaleshwar is very famous for its crop of Strawberries. So, we raided a nursery to get a closer view of these juicy sugar candies and dear Mr Friendly owner of the nursery even let us pluck a few of them. A little ahead, we saw a miniature of the Sriperumbudur race track, where a crowd of over enthusiastic tourists howled as they ran their kart cars into their friends’. Why not do it, I said and Jazz most happily agreed with me. So there I was with a broken yet mandatory helmet on my head and a cranky kart in my hands, flying dust away on that little but very curvy track showing those who stared that how that day belonged to me. After some heart-filling 10 laps, I surrendered to the heat and dragged my feet towards Jazz to get a bit of its air conditioning before I gave my heart away to something else to add a feather to that day’s carnival. As expected, we took the next stop very soon and this time for a rather bumpy ride- the ATVs. My itinerary for the day had already expired after the paragliding session and all the unplanned activities that followed confirmed my belief in Forrest Gump’s statement- life is a box of chocolates; you never know what you get. Another 5 laps on that heavily dosed bumpy track, my body oscillated like a tuning fork. It was only after this merry making that I officially retired for the day and gave a nod to the proposal of going back to Pune.
From what I remember of our drive back, for me it began only before we crossed Harrison Follies and resumed as I saw a hand asking for toll money at the end of the highway at Khedshivapur. Maybe because the exhaustion from the enthusiastic events of the day took me to land of nod in the meanwhile and brought me back to reality just before the final countdown of Jazz’s separation began. Rightly so, because when you have seen the sun setting over Jazz in Alibag, morning dew marking a silver lining on its curves in Tirthan valley and splashes of the Ganges washing its feet in Rishikesh, watching it going away in the dark of the night does feel gloomy.
As this trail of adventures with the Jazz ends, I wish everyone in the Honda Siel family a happy new year and wish the good times return soon.
Goodbye Buddy!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Alibag and all that jazz
I admit, stars define their own path and thus the course of events in one's life. Their trajectories are such that every shooting star falls where destiny wants to take you. And mine, fell somewhere over Pune. How else would you describe the way things have fallen in line for someone living miles away for the mermaids' song to reach. However, it didn't stop me from being in absolute admiration with the serene sight of a sunset over the unfurling waves of a beach. And just to add to the glorious unison of events, I got to visit one. Much of course in the esteemed company of my partner in crime, Honda Jazz X. Not just the company of sun, sand and shore, the visit was to bring some smiles too as the plan was to hit the beach geared and armed. Kayaking, Jet Ski, banana boat, the list was long and my mouth watered as a fresh hit of tsunami. The oracle read the first weekend of the month to be the day of our holy alliance and the place, Alibag!
About 150 kms of ghats and lovely open roads take you to Alibag, located alongside Arabian Sea and famous for water sports. The route majorly takes you on the Pune-Mumbai Expressway with a diversion off the highway at Khopoli towards Alibag, but we decided to make a back-door entry going via Mulshi, with a brief sing-along through Tamhini ghats to reach Kolad. The next step was to take the NH17 up till Vadkhal and then a final left to Alibag, the total of which accounted us for 180 kilometers. The route was a bit longer, but splendid enough to make Monalisa put aside her mysterious smile for a moment and show her pearly whites. It was a treat for all our senses to admire scarlett red Jazz X against the perfect green of trees and water-coloured blue of the lake, we met on the way. This called for numerous photo-ops too. Again, our preparation for the day's adventure, filled in big bags fit in Jazz's magic boot like the missing piece to complete a jigsaw puzzle. Tamhini was raided by a traffic of similar looking tourist vehicles and family cars with kids hanging out of the window, amongst which Jazz looked like a refreshing change. The calling of the breeze of hills was answered as we lowered our windows and turned the music off to hear the sings of nature. The road from Vadkhal to Alibag was however a sore to our bodies and poor Jazz. Journey to Alibag a mix of- still in their sleepy night-dress Pune-kars, scintillating glimpses of ghats, busy small-town crossings, tired and washed out scare-crows in the fields and then the songs of the waves by afternoon. As the sun came up and droplets of sweat emerged on our foreheads, we sang songs of praises for Honda for such effective air-conditioning in the car.
After reaching Alibag and then the new Mandawa jetty, we were handed over to the joyful and amicable waves of the Mandawa beach by our friends from Pioneer adventure sports. The rains had just returned, so the day was shiny and waves were small. Since the season had just started after the roars of monsoon, beach was absolutely empty with just Jazz X and the remains of a crashed container on one side to witness our excitement.
Even the onlookers were surprised to see as we took out a bag after the other to put a fine show of the excessive preparation we had come with and how the seats of a regular looking car could fold into a dance floor was something they could tell their kids a story about.
Wearing the life jacket put away my aqua phobia for some time and I was all ready to kiss salt of the sea. Where jet skis tore away the waves from the middle and slapped me on the chest of the sea, the kayaks were a test of my own strength and skill against the waves which were consistently trying to push me to the shore. The jet skis were powered by 1200cc and 1500cc engines and as they flew like magic carpets on water, Jazz had her share of fun by trying to catch up with them on wet sand. After hills, tracks, highways and city roads, driving something on water was a very different feeling, where waves are the only traffic but instead of the traditional way, you must accelerate just when you hit one. Kayaks were more about cutting the wave at 90 degrees and then smoothly sailing when water accepted your presence. Banana boats were good enough to hold milk before the ride and get milk-shake at the end of it. Trainers recommend you to have light food before coming for the ride; you most certainly don’t want your tummy to make more sounds than you. The rides are pretty safe and a trainer generally accompanies you unless you don’t want to challenge the sea alone. Ferry rides from the Gateway of India to Mandawa beach are frequent during peak season and aren’t very heavy on pocket too. But if you wish to kick-start the fun and are in a hurry to make it to the beach, speed boats can also be hired. A speed boat with the capacity of 13-14 people would charge Rs 6,000 for a 15 mins ride from the Gateway to the beach.
When Jazz could take standing ashore and merely looking at the fun no more, it was time for us to head back. Changing from our clothes full of sand, salt, shivers and smiles we dusted the beach off our beach and got dressed to tell the tales of the day to those who waited. The route back was rather simple and uneventful, if we don’t count bad roads and maddening traffic that is. The road was a narrow two laned state highway (SH-87) and cows claiming the road after some careless grazing was a common sight. From Alibag we reached Pen and after driving through the town, took a turn to reach Khopoli and meet the Mumbai-Pune Expressway. After this, the journey was all about tolls, dodging over-loaded trucks, sharp curves and sleepy hills.
I am in a deep fix on how to end the write up, as I know how much I don’t want it to end. I think this should serve- “You can bring me back from sea, but you can’t take the sea back from me!” Needless to say, I'll be back!
Jazz-in' up Manali!
A trip to Tirthan Valley (some odd kms away from Manali)
That evening when Japan lost the match to Paraguay, there were two more hearts which sank, apart from the many present in the Loftus Versfeld stadium. Me, for my tiny Japaneso connection and Jazz’s (new Honda Jazz X, to be more precise) for the more obvious blood relations. And then? Then I had to take her out for a tiny tummy fill, spin her around a little and cruise her on the sleepy streets of Chandigarh to recharge her jazziness. And all this while, BB King accompanied me in the noble cause; after all, he Jazz and I were partners for 4 more days to come. Those jazzy tantrums had to come in, and all thanks to her enhanced ‘X’ factor.
A little formally now, welcome to my first travelogue, which I’d like to call “ Jazz and Blues meet the valley fish” when Jazz and yours truly got a little too lucky to flee from the scorching Delhi heat and spend a quiet weekend in Tirthan Valley, a popular fishing getaway in Kullu valley. The next morning, we shook last night’s gloom off our shoulders and were ready to swipe another 300 kms to see how heaven’s footsteps look like. Jazz, after a big yawn and stretching, blinked her tiny lights, gave me an assurance that she’s geared up for the journey and off we went.
Drive till Chandigarh was pretty smooth, if we don’t consider the Delhi traffic and Karnal by-pass hustle bustle, that is. The 260 kms that we covered so far were everything but tiring. Lovely green sarson farms and excellent inter-state highway grab the credit for that. With the new USB port in the Jazz X, King then elborated his three ‘o’ clock blues, while we tried to cheer him up with flavoured Lassi and other Punjabi delicacies.
From Chandigarh to Ropar was an easy route, without any windows rolling and asking for directions hassles. But a few kms down that road, and projects for a four laned highway had slyly dug up the existing two lanes. Because of this, all the passing cars had to suck their breath in and share their space with the bully trucks. Apart from the vernacular poetry behind the trucks, their musical power horns and names of the villages which fell on the way, the way how Jazz became ‘ Jajj’ in Punjab, called for a hearty laugh too. The road after we took the turn towards Manali, shrunk to a single laned winding road, where traffic coming from the other side played hide and seek and you needed to give your feet a little exercise to successfully make it uphill. The road didn’t make for much of a success story too. It looked more like an honest attempt to make a road through those finely cut hillocks, but quite forgotten.
Rubble, weathering stones, stray wild and 43 degrees steep roads were enough to scare living daylights out of a rookie F1 driver, much more than the Monaco racing circuit. And if you’re lucky, you could see the transport buses’ drivers feeding monkeys at the end of a blind curve. They really seemed to have exchanged places for that moment. Not just that, the view outside the window was just too tempting for you to not pull over on a side, hunt for your camera under that huge heap of luggage smiling at you at the back, and capture some candid shots of nature casting a majestic spell on you. Fuel fills weren’t that frequent and Jazz gave us a glimpse of her diet-conscious self, as well.
The road from there got steeper and mercury fell like dead pigeons. Jazz had to remove her pretty heels and wear those grubby sneakers to defy gravity and climb on. New alloys really added another layer of sportiness to Jazz’s sneakers. The road narrowed and through the tiny habitats, it could actually be termed as a pass way, if not anything more. Marijuana bushes along the road made our eyes glisten with greed, hope Narcotics dept isn’t reading this. And for the Blues, song being played was- Sweet Home Chicago, BB King isn’t The King for nothing. It was somewhere around this time when I sensed this tinge of jealousy which arose in both the camps. Jazz with her newly acquired spoiler tried to match with King’s fine cut suit and diamond rings, while I stretched my legs in the cabin and enjoyed all the space I was blessed with. The cup holder at the door pocket saved me from dying of thirst while my co-driver, despite my repeated attempts to wake him, slept merrily in the chill of the AC.
Sun bid its farewells for the day and advised us to better make it to our destination before the mist of night swallows the road and casts a spell on our senses. Just to remind us of how safe hands we were in, Jazz flickered the halogen lamps and made night driving simple as abc’s. Discussing Clapton’s ride with the King, we reached the Himalayan Trout house, in Nagini village and gave our salutations to Tirthan stream, a tributary of river Beas. While pear, cherry, apple and apricot trees standing tall and proud in the camp area fed our hungry tummies, curiosity and amazement, the lullaby that river sang while enveloping tiny trouts under its arms put us to a sound sleep.
Even if I was hypnotized, I wouldn’t be able to tell when was the last time I woke to chirping birds and not my cell phone’s annoying Christmas bells alarm. A bit of mist on Jazz’s body whispered that she and the stream had an extended conversation last night. The next day was devoted to taking all the travel fatigue off our bodies layer by layer, and it got all the more interesting when the camp owner tickled our attention by making a mention of fly- fishing. What followed was a mind quenching discussion on what the sport is all about and where and how we could try our hand at it.
The valley is basically famous for its fly fishing camps for brown trouts. The technique used in the sport puts Shakespeare’s saying in the best possible use- ‘The world’s a stage and men and women, mere players’. Using replicas of river flies as baits, fly fishers dupe the trouts to their dinner plates. But making exact replicas, tossing them into the river at a certain angle and understanding the habits of the fish is what calls for a practice. And since we could relish the trout only if we caught it, we were more than happy to undertake the practice session. What better than clubbing a nice camp evening with the fishing lessons, and there you have my head nodding. Even Jazz merrily agreed for the same, put her magic seats down and welcomed the tents fishing rods and wood for evening’s bonfire without a sigh.
Let’s not get into the details of our not so successful fishing hour, but words fail to support me
whenever I sit to write about the camping experience and the fishing lessons. Apart from night-long discussions about fishing, angling and river floods, herb trees in the vicinity and even Jazz’s new scarlet red skin fuelled the night’s bonfire. Another mistake that we made was not taking any light woolens with us. 12 degrees at night were enough to rattle your bones once.
There were plenty of other things which we could’ve done being in the valley, visiting Jalori Pass and Great Himalayan Park, being a few. But time constraint permitted us to stay there for only a day. The next morning, before the cherry trees could uncurl their leaves, we were ready to bid adieu to the Himalayas. Needless to say that none of us wanted to leave so early, but better things awaited us at the other end. Before the curtain goes down, I would like to change that famous saying,
‘Give a man a fish, and you at least feed him for a day… Teach a man to fish, and he eats herbs for dinner!’
Claps (optional). Curtains down.
That evening when Japan lost the match to Paraguay, there were two more hearts which sank, apart from the many present in the Loftus Versfeld stadium. Me, for my tiny Japaneso connection and Jazz’s (new Honda Jazz X, to be more precise) for the more obvious blood relations. And then? Then I had to take her out for a tiny tummy fill, spin her around a little and cruise her on the sleepy streets of Chandigarh to recharge her jazziness. And all this while, BB King accompanied me in the noble cause; after all, he Jazz and I were partners for 4 more days to come. Those jazzy tantrums had to come in, and all thanks to her enhanced ‘X’ factor.
A little formally now, welcome to my first travelogue, which I’d like to call “ Jazz and Blues meet the valley fish” when Jazz and yours truly got a little too lucky to flee from the scorching Delhi heat and spend a quiet weekend in Tirthan Valley, a popular fishing getaway in Kullu valley. The next morning, we shook last night’s gloom off our shoulders and were ready to swipe another 300 kms to see how heaven’s footsteps look like. Jazz, after a big yawn and stretching, blinked her tiny lights, gave me an assurance that she’s geared up for the journey and off we went.
Drive till Chandigarh was pretty smooth, if we don’t consider the Delhi traffic and Karnal by-pass hustle bustle, that is. The 260 kms that we covered so far were everything but tiring. Lovely green sarson farms and excellent inter-state highway grab the credit for that. With the new USB port in the Jazz X, King then elborated his three ‘o’ clock blues, while we tried to cheer him up with flavoured Lassi and other Punjabi delicacies.
From Chandigarh to Ropar was an easy route, without any windows rolling and asking for directions hassles. But a few kms down that road, and projects for a four laned highway had slyly dug up the existing two lanes. Because of this, all the passing cars had to suck their breath in and share their space with the bully trucks. Apart from the vernacular poetry behind the trucks, their musical power horns and names of the villages which fell on the way, the way how Jazz became ‘ Jajj’ in Punjab, called for a hearty laugh too. The road after we took the turn towards Manali, shrunk to a single laned winding road, where traffic coming from the other side played hide and seek and you needed to give your feet a little exercise to successfully make it uphill. The road didn’t make for much of a success story too. It looked more like an honest attempt to make a road through those finely cut hillocks, but quite forgotten.
Rubble, weathering stones, stray wild and 43 degrees steep roads were enough to scare living daylights out of a rookie F1 driver, much more than the Monaco racing circuit. And if you’re lucky, you could see the transport buses’ drivers feeding monkeys at the end of a blind curve. They really seemed to have exchanged places for that moment. Not just that, the view outside the window was just too tempting for you to not pull over on a side, hunt for your camera under that huge heap of luggage smiling at you at the back, and capture some candid shots of nature casting a majestic spell on you. Fuel fills weren’t that frequent and Jazz gave us a glimpse of her diet-conscious self, as well.
The road from there got steeper and mercury fell like dead pigeons. Jazz had to remove her pretty heels and wear those grubby sneakers to defy gravity and climb on. New alloys really added another layer of sportiness to Jazz’s sneakers. The road narrowed and through the tiny habitats, it could actually be termed as a pass way, if not anything more. Marijuana bushes along the road made our eyes glisten with greed, hope Narcotics dept isn’t reading this. And for the Blues, song being played was- Sweet Home Chicago, BB King isn’t The King for nothing. It was somewhere around this time when I sensed this tinge of jealousy which arose in both the camps. Jazz with her newly acquired spoiler tried to match with King’s fine cut suit and diamond rings, while I stretched my legs in the cabin and enjoyed all the space I was blessed with. The cup holder at the door pocket saved me from dying of thirst while my co-driver, despite my repeated attempts to wake him, slept merrily in the chill of the AC.
Sun bid its farewells for the day and advised us to better make it to our destination before the mist of night swallows the road and casts a spell on our senses. Just to remind us of how safe hands we were in, Jazz flickered the halogen lamps and made night driving simple as abc’s. Discussing Clapton’s ride with the King, we reached the Himalayan Trout house, in Nagini village and gave our salutations to Tirthan stream, a tributary of river Beas. While pear, cherry, apple and apricot trees standing tall and proud in the camp area fed our hungry tummies, curiosity and amazement, the lullaby that river sang while enveloping tiny trouts under its arms put us to a sound sleep.
Even if I was hypnotized, I wouldn’t be able to tell when was the last time I woke to chirping birds and not my cell phone’s annoying Christmas bells alarm. A bit of mist on Jazz’s body whispered that she and the stream had an extended conversation last night. The next day was devoted to taking all the travel fatigue off our bodies layer by layer, and it got all the more interesting when the camp owner tickled our attention by making a mention of fly- fishing. What followed was a mind quenching discussion on what the sport is all about and where and how we could try our hand at it.
The valley is basically famous for its fly fishing camps for brown trouts. The technique used in the sport puts Shakespeare’s saying in the best possible use- ‘The world’s a stage and men and women, mere players’. Using replicas of river flies as baits, fly fishers dupe the trouts to their dinner plates. But making exact replicas, tossing them into the river at a certain angle and understanding the habits of the fish is what calls for a practice. And since we could relish the trout only if we caught it, we were more than happy to undertake the practice session. What better than clubbing a nice camp evening with the fishing lessons, and there you have my head nodding. Even Jazz merrily agreed for the same, put her magic seats down and welcomed the tents fishing rods and wood for evening’s bonfire without a sigh.
Let’s not get into the details of our not so successful fishing hour, but words fail to support me
whenever I sit to write about the camping experience and the fishing lessons. Apart from night-long discussions about fishing, angling and river floods, herb trees in the vicinity and even Jazz’s new scarlet red skin fuelled the night’s bonfire. Another mistake that we made was not taking any light woolens with us. 12 degrees at night were enough to rattle your bones once.
There were plenty of other things which we could’ve done being in the valley, visiting Jalori Pass and Great Himalayan Park, being a few. But time constraint permitted us to stay there for only a day. The next morning, before the cherry trees could uncurl their leaves, we were ready to bid adieu to the Himalayas. Needless to say that none of us wanted to leave so early, but better things awaited us at the other end. Before the curtain goes down, I would like to change that famous saying,
‘Give a man a fish, and you at least feed him for a day… Teach a man to fish, and he eats herbs for dinner!’
Claps (optional). Curtains down.
The Thump Tale
An account of a ride from Bombay to Goa, when my father's dream bike was my ride for about a week. Read on....
I, (Gasha Aeri), do solemnly swear that I will kiss the early morning breeze through my helmet, give a salute to the first ray of dawn with my bike's headlamp, sing the songs of compassion in harmony with his thump and ride till the last iota of energy in my veins permits me to. Meanwhile, I shall obey the set of traffic rules laid for the safety of all, mankind and beyond. I shall buckle up, zip up and strap up and come all geared to meet the highway. So, be with me and help me God.
Rituals done and we, the mighty group of 20 riders (not counting 3 pillions) were ready to face all the extremes NH-17 had to offer. The commandos (the bikes, I mean) were a mix of old and new Thunderbirds, Bullet Electra and Classic 350s and 500s, some of which, being customer bikes were modified to reflect the persona of the owner. Fancy paint job, anti- rust coating on the chrome, bigger discs and modified handlebars were some of the common surgeries my fellow riders had done on their beasts. But common in all of them was the daredevil spirit, enthusiasm, aggression to show the world who they are and the roar which could put life in dead.
We met the dudes at Panvel and our motoroly (motor+holy=motoroly) alliance was to last till Margao, a partnership of six days but friendship of a lifetime and beyond. My man in black was a Thunderbird Twinspark and trust me, he looked like a deadly amalgamation of Arnold, Bruce Willis and Will Smith (for the attitude and style) to me.
The first day called for the formalities- checking the bikes, getting minor repairs done (if
required at all) and meeting the riderolahs (rider+hoolah=riderolah, you’ll have to bear with this
wacky vocabulary till the end of the story).
Independence Day, while the country celebrated the “with the stroke of midnight” speech and we rejoiced over shunning the shackles of a routine-bound lifestyle and faced south to hear the welcome songs from the highway, our bikes standing not very far and feeling the same. Enough fuel down his throat and Mr T (my TBT) gave me a loud tally-ho and signaled that there was nothing left to amuse him much, (he said this after his failed attempts of flirting with Karizma and sharing some loud guy talks with fellow Enfies) and we must bite the highway dust now. So, his order be my command. In a melancholy of thump, we grabbed every living soul’s attention and rode away to the promise land which awaited on the other side of the horizon. Mr T didn’t take long to make friends with me and it wasn’t very late that we began singing each other’s tunes. His glorious past shone bright and clear in his walk and being associated with him gave me the same panache and elan, something which he appreciated and responded to by flying to kiss the 110 kmph mark much before I could realize. I was a little hesitant, but he held my hand and we fired our way through the crowd of things which called themselves cars and bikes, but looked nothing more than some tin on wheels at that time.
Some 300 clicks down, we reached Dapoli and Mr T bathed in the gleam of setting sun, right in front of Karde beach. The next morning, as I approached him with a duster and a bucketful of
water for a bath, he refused by saying that men like to bear the aroma of their sweat. Ah, what
a man! He whistled through the ghats of Guhagar, Hedavi and then Bhatgaon, while hillocks
glanced at us like a secret whisper. He coughed away the puddles of mud and was ready to sing
for miles till we pitched our camps at Ratnagiri that night. The twisties tried playing a little hide
and seek with the mighty man and me, but no one messes with Mr T, in his own words.
Riding through the Anaskura ghats, where the leftovers of a week before’s landslide weren’t cleared and thick blanket of fog almost blinded us, Mr T showed me his own way of leaving a true man’s mark. Setting every foot carefully, we didn’t miss sparing a look for nature’s tricks of hiding the best. All that she commands from you is the effort to come and witness it in the true form. We took that chance and were rewarded with both hands.
Another such breathtaking experience was riding through the ghats of Amboli. Water knows no boundations, they say and they aren’t wrong. Sprouting from anywhere, the waterfalls in that section often left me with my mouth open in awe and it was Mr T’s job to warn me against any bugs coming in for a stroll. The roads weren’t the best ones to swear in the name of, with potholes as deep as a woman’s dirty secrets but we knew our way around them. Rains accompanied us all throughout the ride like a haunting spirit but guess what they gave us in return, slush fest! Vengurla light-house, first encounter with a python, lip-smacking Malvani cuisine, the list is unending and Mr T would agree with me that all of these pushed me a little away from my phobias and brought me way closer to him. The ride through Dandeli Bison reserve and how our senses were open and fingers ready to whack open the throttle at the very sight of a carnivore, still makes my heart pounce.
Thumping away to glory, I was nearly done with complimenting Mr T for the lovely voice he has when lightning struck upon us. ‘Goa welcomes you’. “What! The end of the ride, you mean! But we’ve hardly had enough..” was what I told him, to which he smiled and held my hand lovingly. Like all good things, this one must also come to an end. Godliness had it his way and we spent a quiet evening on Palolem beach, just discussing the ride, singing our last songs together and making plans to change the world if given a chance.
My heart bled as I bid him my farewells, but as promised Mr T, the world is just too small to be ridden around and we’re way too curious. Let’s meet again.
I, (Gasha Aeri), do solemnly swear that I will kiss the early morning breeze through my helmet, give a salute to the first ray of dawn with my bike's headlamp, sing the songs of compassion in harmony with his thump and ride till the last iota of energy in my veins permits me to. Meanwhile, I shall obey the set of traffic rules laid for the safety of all, mankind and beyond. I shall buckle up, zip up and strap up and come all geared to meet the highway. So, be with me and help me God.
Rituals done and we, the mighty group of 20 riders (not counting 3 pillions) were ready to face all the extremes NH-17 had to offer. The commandos (the bikes, I mean) were a mix of old and new Thunderbirds, Bullet Electra and Classic 350s and 500s, some of which, being customer bikes were modified to reflect the persona of the owner. Fancy paint job, anti- rust coating on the chrome, bigger discs and modified handlebars were some of the common surgeries my fellow riders had done on their beasts. But common in all of them was the daredevil spirit, enthusiasm, aggression to show the world who they are and the roar which could put life in dead.
We met the dudes at Panvel and our motoroly (motor+holy=motoroly) alliance was to last till Margao, a partnership of six days but friendship of a lifetime and beyond. My man in black was a Thunderbird Twinspark and trust me, he looked like a deadly amalgamation of Arnold, Bruce Willis and Will Smith (for the attitude and style) to me.
The first day called for the formalities- checking the bikes, getting minor repairs done (if
required at all) and meeting the riderolahs (rider+hoolah=riderolah, you’ll have to bear with this
wacky vocabulary till the end of the story).
Independence Day, while the country celebrated the “with the stroke of midnight” speech and we rejoiced over shunning the shackles of a routine-bound lifestyle and faced south to hear the welcome songs from the highway, our bikes standing not very far and feeling the same. Enough fuel down his throat and Mr T (my TBT) gave me a loud tally-ho and signaled that there was nothing left to amuse him much, (he said this after his failed attempts of flirting with Karizma and sharing some loud guy talks with fellow Enfies) and we must bite the highway dust now. So, his order be my command. In a melancholy of thump, we grabbed every living soul’s attention and rode away to the promise land which awaited on the other side of the horizon. Mr T didn’t take long to make friends with me and it wasn’t very late that we began singing each other’s tunes. His glorious past shone bright and clear in his walk and being associated with him gave me the same panache and elan, something which he appreciated and responded to by flying to kiss the 110 kmph mark much before I could realize. I was a little hesitant, but he held my hand and we fired our way through the crowd of things which called themselves cars and bikes, but looked nothing more than some tin on wheels at that time.
Some 300 clicks down, we reached Dapoli and Mr T bathed in the gleam of setting sun, right in front of Karde beach. The next morning, as I approached him with a duster and a bucketful of
water for a bath, he refused by saying that men like to bear the aroma of their sweat. Ah, what
a man! He whistled through the ghats of Guhagar, Hedavi and then Bhatgaon, while hillocks
glanced at us like a secret whisper. He coughed away the puddles of mud and was ready to sing
for miles till we pitched our camps at Ratnagiri that night. The twisties tried playing a little hide
and seek with the mighty man and me, but no one messes with Mr T, in his own words.
Riding through the Anaskura ghats, where the leftovers of a week before’s landslide weren’t cleared and thick blanket of fog almost blinded us, Mr T showed me his own way of leaving a true man’s mark. Setting every foot carefully, we didn’t miss sparing a look for nature’s tricks of hiding the best. All that she commands from you is the effort to come and witness it in the true form. We took that chance and were rewarded with both hands.
Another such breathtaking experience was riding through the ghats of Amboli. Water knows no boundations, they say and they aren’t wrong. Sprouting from anywhere, the waterfalls in that section often left me with my mouth open in awe and it was Mr T’s job to warn me against any bugs coming in for a stroll. The roads weren’t the best ones to swear in the name of, with potholes as deep as a woman’s dirty secrets but we knew our way around them. Rains accompanied us all throughout the ride like a haunting spirit but guess what they gave us in return, slush fest! Vengurla light-house, first encounter with a python, lip-smacking Malvani cuisine, the list is unending and Mr T would agree with me that all of these pushed me a little away from my phobias and brought me way closer to him. The ride through Dandeli Bison reserve and how our senses were open and fingers ready to whack open the throttle at the very sight of a carnivore, still makes my heart pounce.
Thumping away to glory, I was nearly done with complimenting Mr T for the lovely voice he has when lightning struck upon us. ‘Goa welcomes you’. “What! The end of the ride, you mean! But we’ve hardly had enough..” was what I told him, to which he smiled and held my hand lovingly. Like all good things, this one must also come to an end. Godliness had it his way and we spent a quiet evening on Palolem beach, just discussing the ride, singing our last songs together and making plans to change the world if given a chance.
My heart bled as I bid him my farewells, but as promised Mr T, the world is just too small to be ridden around and we’re way too curious. Let’s meet again.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Big, Fat Auto Wedding
Premier Rio Weds Maruti Suzuki Swift
He has had his days of glory and undivided attention. Born in China, living in India with a different name; meet our Mr Charming- the Premier Rio. Let’s talk a little about this young, eligible bachelor. He is supporting his elderly father, Premier Auto Company, like how every ideal Indian son is expected to do. He has faced months of shutterbugs, TV reviews, articles on his grand debut in the Indian auto market.
But, things for young man Rio have turned cold now, just like an estranged lover’s heart.
Did I just say lover? And that is my cue to introduce lad Rio’s lady love- Ms Maruti Suzuki Swift.
Her curvaceous body (read-bulky) gives a vivid idea of very popular North Indian conception- “We’re not fat, we come from a well to-do (to-eat, actually) family.”
He likes her for her looks and the space she offers. How she manages the family budget brilliantly, with an excellent mileage, leaves his eyes wide open. Six months’ waiting period for delivery makes him swell with pride, because he’s her man!
Ask her what makes him so special, and her broad headlamps shrink as she blushes away. He is different from the rest of them, she says. When those bad boy SUVs swing from left to right on their ladder frame, his compact SUV self makes her turn towards her best friend, Lady Ritz, and say- “Aww, isn’t he cute!”
The gallant entry he makes on the corners makes her heart skip a beat. His build quality forms dreamy clouds over her head, content of which is not suitable to be written here.
But, just like any other happy couple, even Rio and Swift have their share of arguments. There exists a list of things they would like to change about each other.
Where Swift keeps herself manicured and padicured with a fancy dash, Rio believes in simple living and high thinking. Her top notch plastic quality and upholstery show her liking for designer labels. Rio, on the other hand, still likes to wear his grandfather’s old coat. Lady Ritz told her about how one can judge a gentleman by his shoes. Since then, Swift has been after Rio’s life to change his Kenda Clever and buy something nice like Bridgestones or Apollos.
Looks like a pauper meets a princess story to me.
Rio, our humble man has only one complaint. With the increasing number of his beloved’s replica on the roads, it becomes difficult for him to keep an eye on his angel. Very valid point there, I agree. Rio’s scariest nightmare is getting caught with one of her lady’s replica.
Enough of peeping through the key-hole, I say. Let Mr Rio and Ms Swift have a happy date at the workshop while we fantasize about other such couples.
Oh! Before I forget and before Mr Rio spots that I have been fiddling with Ms Swift’s central locking system, making her flash and sing after every 30 seconds, I must share this gossip with you.
The star couple has been planning to adopt a kid. It’s the Nissan Micra, I’ve heard.
Oh my God! I see Mr Rio running at his top speed of 150 kmph towards me. I think he caught me. But my top speed is not even 10 kmph!
I am so dead! :(
He has had his days of glory and undivided attention. Born in China, living in India with a different name; meet our Mr Charming- the Premier Rio. Let’s talk a little about this young, eligible bachelor. He is supporting his elderly father, Premier Auto Company, like how every ideal Indian son is expected to do. He has faced months of shutterbugs, TV reviews, articles on his grand debut in the Indian auto market.
But, things for young man Rio have turned cold now, just like an estranged lover’s heart.
Did I just say lover? And that is my cue to introduce lad Rio’s lady love- Ms Maruti Suzuki Swift.
Her curvaceous body (read-bulky) gives a vivid idea of very popular North Indian conception- “We’re not fat, we come from a well to-do (to-eat, actually) family.”
He likes her for her looks and the space she offers. How she manages the family budget brilliantly, with an excellent mileage, leaves his eyes wide open. Six months’ waiting period for delivery makes him swell with pride, because he’s her man!
Ask her what makes him so special, and her broad headlamps shrink as she blushes away. He is different from the rest of them, she says. When those bad boy SUVs swing from left to right on their ladder frame, his compact SUV self makes her turn towards her best friend, Lady Ritz, and say- “Aww, isn’t he cute!”
The gallant entry he makes on the corners makes her heart skip a beat. His build quality forms dreamy clouds over her head, content of which is not suitable to be written here.
But, just like any other happy couple, even Rio and Swift have their share of arguments. There exists a list of things they would like to change about each other.
Where Swift keeps herself manicured and padicured with a fancy dash, Rio believes in simple living and high thinking. Her top notch plastic quality and upholstery show her liking for designer labels. Rio, on the other hand, still likes to wear his grandfather’s old coat. Lady Ritz told her about how one can judge a gentleman by his shoes. Since then, Swift has been after Rio’s life to change his Kenda Clever and buy something nice like Bridgestones or Apollos.
Looks like a pauper meets a princess story to me.
Rio, our humble man has only one complaint. With the increasing number of his beloved’s replica on the roads, it becomes difficult for him to keep an eye on his angel. Very valid point there, I agree. Rio’s scariest nightmare is getting caught with one of her lady’s replica.
Enough of peeping through the key-hole, I say. Let Mr Rio and Ms Swift have a happy date at the workshop while we fantasize about other such couples.
Oh! Before I forget and before Mr Rio spots that I have been fiddling with Ms Swift’s central locking system, making her flash and sing after every 30 seconds, I must share this gossip with you.
The star couple has been planning to adopt a kid. It’s the Nissan Micra, I’ve heard.
Oh my God! I see Mr Rio running at his top speed of 150 kmph towards me. I think he caught me. But my top speed is not even 10 kmph!
I am so dead! :(
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Jive-aani Deewani
New TVS Jive
Qualifying for your dream job without undergoing the trauma of hitting your head against High School Mathematics, driving the finest cars made in the history of carkind without struggling to get the half clutch and then accelerate mantra right and looking drop-dead gorgeous even in a pair of grubby jeans and worn out T-shirt. Is that your idea of ‘hassle free’? If not, then what is?
I had a hassle free morning some time back. Early morning roads in the capital are nothing better than a bunch of chickens let loose. Reaching school on time tops the priority list of the parents (still in their funny night suits), bus and cab drivers (honk honk, I pay more road tax. So, let me go!) and pedestrians (kids being pulled by the nannies like a little pup in leash). Making your way through the morning hugger mugger is like hitting boundary on a yorker. This was the same hassle free morning. And why hassle free, because I had a clutch-free ride.
I was riding new TVS Jive, the no tension bike. Quite true.
The idea of auto clutch and rotary gearbox isn’t very new to Indian moto market. Hero Honda’s Street came out with a similar idea, but couldn’t vouch on the ‘hassle free’ bit. Jive has come at a time when daily commuters are going heavier and bulkier with every sunrise, gearless scooters are gaining popularity like never before and traffic jams have become a major part of our daily habits. It has a long way to go.
TVS’ idea behind keeping minimal styling is very clear. You buy Jive because your daily riding is a mission and not an excursion. Any gear start/stop, 110cc engine’s fuel economy, light weight and pocket-friendly pricing don’t leave any room for not making an adjustment with the regular looks of the bike. TVS has applied for the copyright of the T-matic technology (rotary gearbox mechanism) and promise for nothing more but a lowered stressed quotient during your ride.
Some extra freebies are electric start, 17” alloys and telescopic front. The ride isn’t very power packed unlike a daily 100cc commuter, but hands-free gear shift will surely make it popular amongst old riders. Statuary warning, this bike isn’t meant for you if you expect the needle to house the redline. 8.4 bhp and 8.3 Nm aren’t very bad figures, though. Travelling from point A to B and Jive serves the purpose really well.
At Rs 43……. It is worth the tag. So, next time when you wrap your legs around the Jive, make better use of the left hand and wave to the school-going kids. You aren’t doing anything much with your hand, but an innocent smile will surely make your day. :)
Qualifying for your dream job without undergoing the trauma of hitting your head against High School Mathematics, driving the finest cars made in the history of carkind without struggling to get the half clutch and then accelerate mantra right and looking drop-dead gorgeous even in a pair of grubby jeans and worn out T-shirt. Is that your idea of ‘hassle free’? If not, then what is?
I had a hassle free morning some time back. Early morning roads in the capital are nothing better than a bunch of chickens let loose. Reaching school on time tops the priority list of the parents (still in their funny night suits), bus and cab drivers (honk honk, I pay more road tax. So, let me go!) and pedestrians (kids being pulled by the nannies like a little pup in leash). Making your way through the morning hugger mugger is like hitting boundary on a yorker. This was the same hassle free morning. And why hassle free, because I had a clutch-free ride.
I was riding new TVS Jive, the no tension bike. Quite true.
The idea of auto clutch and rotary gearbox isn’t very new to Indian moto market. Hero Honda’s Street came out with a similar idea, but couldn’t vouch on the ‘hassle free’ bit. Jive has come at a time when daily commuters are going heavier and bulkier with every sunrise, gearless scooters are gaining popularity like never before and traffic jams have become a major part of our daily habits. It has a long way to go.
TVS’ idea behind keeping minimal styling is very clear. You buy Jive because your daily riding is a mission and not an excursion. Any gear start/stop, 110cc engine’s fuel economy, light weight and pocket-friendly pricing don’t leave any room for not making an adjustment with the regular looks of the bike. TVS has applied for the copyright of the T-matic technology (rotary gearbox mechanism) and promise for nothing more but a lowered stressed quotient during your ride.
Some extra freebies are electric start, 17” alloys and telescopic front. The ride isn’t very power packed unlike a daily 100cc commuter, but hands-free gear shift will surely make it popular amongst old riders. Statuary warning, this bike isn’t meant for you if you expect the needle to house the redline. 8.4 bhp and 8.3 Nm aren’t very bad figures, though. Travelling from point A to B and Jive serves the purpose really well.
At Rs 43……. It is worth the tag. So, next time when you wrap your legs around the Jive, make better use of the left hand and wave to the school-going kids. You aren’t doing anything much with your hand, but an innocent smile will surely make your day. :)
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Volvocanic eruption
NEW VOLVO S80 D5
Try and say these lines five times in a row, “Wobble wobble Volvo won’t. Wibble wobble Wolverine goes”.
I know I have a very bright career as a writer of tongue-twisters. The only problem is that I love doing what I do. And what I do is, drive cars. I drove the Beemer and fell in love with it. I drove the Audi and lost my heart to its twinkling eyes. I drove the Mercedes and wanted to be an astronaut and live with the tri-legged stars. And then, I drove the Volvo.
Did I make it sound like I drove a fighter plane? I am sorry if I did. The Volvo S80 D5 isn't the best car I’ve driven or even the most luxurious car I’ve been in, but it gave me my first Volvo experience. It was with me for two days and I didn't miss her after she left. Sounds like a very short love story, but that is exactly what it was.
It shares the same universe as an Audi A6, BMW 520d and Mercedes E 250 CDI Blue Efficiency. Still, being a sprouting player in the industry; Volvo has miles to go and no time to sleep.
I haven't seen the earlier Volvos, but what I read about this one is that the new D5 has shun the shackles of being a boxy luxury drive. I really like the front grille and the Volvo emblem in its heart. The bold lines and sharp edges and you sniff authority. But, I think it still looks like your old school Mathematics teacher who was quite a terror, even if you met her in the marketplace. You better be in the best of your formals and with the highest degree of sophistication if you're around the Volvo. The headlamps fail to keep up to the mark on a pitch dark night. The rear is simple.
Looking at the car and making comments about it is the last thing which crosses your mind when you have a 2 liter, common rail D5 with twin turbos standing in front of you. The spec sheet reads 205 hp and 420 Nm, but seeing (in this case, driving) is believing. So, fasten your seatbelts, we are ready for take off.
I have learnt the 5 Ws and 1H of writing and I wish to share the 5 Ls of Volvo with you. Lean, long, low but loud and lethargic at the same time.
The engine, with diesel flowing in its veins, you expect it to be noisy. But, there is a difference between a carol and opera. The noise manages to fool the guards on the gates, spies on the windows and reaches your ears. I am sure you don't want to think about moving valves and pistons while enjoying the luxury of your car. No paddle shifts! That means, while driving in the sports mode, the gearshift enjoys the undivided attention of your left hand. The steering is firm and nice and your left hand is definitely feeling jealous of its right counterpart. If only you give me a chance to make your life better, I'll tell you that you can happily keep both of your hands around the steering wheel and drive in the automatic mode only because the 6-speed transmission feels sluggish. How sluggish? I finished singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" before the car hit the 100 kmph mark. The 18-inch Michelins rolling under my feet promised a lot more.
But a mind boggling drive wasn't what I was expecting from the D5. Comfort, Reliability and Safety was. Volvo has always won brownie points for making safe cars. Particulate filters, Intelligent driver information system, adaptive brake lights, dynamic stability and traction control- heavy names but life-saving functions. Volvo gives you a feeling on being in a cocoon, a fortress or better, in your mother's womb. That safe.
Stylish and classy for me, has always been synonymous to less loaded, simple and easy. And therefore, the dash which waits for me in the new D5 is very classy, indeed. I don't know much about wood, but I think the wood used in the dash looks awesome. The seats are as comfortable as the guy who coined the word wanted comfortable to be. Sitting on the rear seats did not satisfy my craving to move my fingers over a lot of tiny, black buttons. But, there was a whole lot of legroom and comfort for me in there, along with a baby seat in the arm-rest. How difficult do you think it is to put a paranoid passenger, who doesn't trust anyone on wheels but herself, to sleep? I confess, I dozed off more than twice.
I like the Volvo for a lot of things. I don't like the Volvo for a lot of other things. But, I know that if I ever have a family and I want them to be sitting in the safest car present, I need not worry. They have six dealerships so far, but expansion is very well on cards for Volvo. So, I will get a Volvo for my family, no matter which part of the country I decide to reside in.
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