Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Of Enfield Clutches

Now we all know how bad the clutches of a Royal Enfield bike can become in dense traffic, but although I have kept that as the title of this piece, it is not really about Enfield clutches after all. For more info on that, check out GuruNandan's web site on Enfields. Alanis is singing "i can't be an asshole??" or is she? What is it playing in the background? That's precisely why I ask you to listen to jazz instrumental. At least music leaves you with one apparent interpretation unless you delve deep and find out what it actually means. Not the same with words, man, they sound like other words, which in turn sound like other words. So, something Alanis is singing can be interpreted by me as asshole, while you might think it is asholey, to mean "in reality" in Bangla. Often when I try to switch off the dictionary on my cellphone and try to write in Bangla, I realize most of the words mean something or the other in some other language. So, sorry to digress... what i meant is, try listening to jazz instrumentals. Like John MacLaughlin's Live in Tokyo is so awesome, so awesome...you won't need to know Japanese or English or American to understand the music. It will just hit you and you in turn will hit someone on the road if you are driving. I did that yesterday, did I tell you? I hit one old lady crossing the street and she flew up into the air and made such a pretty picture with her skirt flying all over. She fell in slo mo, lemme tell you... and landed on her feet... and continued walking. I later figured she was listening to John Coltrane. That explained the closed eyes.

Last night when I was chatting with a colleague frnd, we discussed this obsession most men have with humongous boobs. And then we zeroed in on two women on whose boobs we can play around. Like jogging, running, climbing, and lying down on the tip at the end of the day, panting. Quite an uphill fantasy, that.

In dense traffic, your clutch oil starts heating up and sometimes you can smell the burning oil through your helmet. And then you cannot find the neutral. You are stuck in some gear, clutch engaged, waiting for the car in front to move... and when you are about to lose your cool, just let go. Let the engine die. Remove your helmet and park the bike on the side. Let your old mare breathe. She is not made for roads where you need bullock carts and donkey carriages. She is made for the open road where the air brushes aside all weird thoughts and clears your mind. You are made for the open road and not for climbing huge boobs with ladders. You are not meant to think of voids and gaps and crevasses. Or about some anniversaries people want to celebrate when you are away, riding. So don't plan. Let it be seamless, like jazz, where the need to interpret words isn't there. Where just plain music, the music of the air violently entering your helmet through the vents, of the state buses zooming past, of going further and further away from the plains up into the hills... fills your senses.