The Year 1988: Sitting on the tank of the Mini Bullet while my father negotiated the curves on the road from Darjeeling to Lebong. We went through the fog and my face was all wet. I flailed my arms about and cried out in joy. One of my earliest memories, and it happens to be on a motorcycle.
I was always meant to be a motorcyclist. There is this interesting story about how i learnt to ride. My father was in the army and pretty strict. So he would never let me touch his trusted Chetak. While friends sped away on their splendours and RXs, i pedalled furiously on my Hercules RockShox. His standard answers to all my pleading was ' Be your own man. Buy your own bike'. The year was 1999 and i was a teenager on the verge of rebellion. One fine day, there was a strike in Kanpur and the Tum-Tums were off the roads. I needed to get to my coaching classes. The Chetak looked at me invitingly, its headlight turned towards me. Its as if destiny had pre ordained that day for my baptism. I started it up and put it into gear. Countless miles of sitting on the baby seat at the front had taught me a thing or two about the basics. I raised the throttle and let go of the clutch. Nothing. The thing just stalled. A few more stalls and i was exasperated. Sweat was dripping down my face and my eyes were burning, partly due to the sweat in my eyes and mostly due to my fallen ego.
When you are a rebellious teenager, you want to prove people wrong and deep down inside, you want approval. That afternoon, i told myself, 'Ok, this is just a machine. You can do it. You can show your father that you don't need his help.' Rage can work wonders if you use it well. A few hundred meters and half an hour into my quest, i finally was away, handle bars shaking.
I engaged the second gear, expecting to speed away. Rage can only help you with the first gear, i learnt. It wont press the clutch for you. I stalled again, almost falling off. I was a kilometer from home and there was no turning back. That was it. That was my test. I couldn't go back and face my fathers' "I told you so" look. A few more false starts, and the second gear had been mastered. Every lesson was scary. A jam on the brakes and the rear wheel fish tailed. A cow on the road and i stalled again. On the main road near "barah chauraha" i kept stalling and starting. Car wallahs behind me winced, bikers shouted abuses as they raced away. When you are on a mission, obstacles and noises have a tendency of muting themselves. It was 4 o clock and my father would be home from office. Fear engulfed me. What if he discovered that his beloved scooter was missing and decided to come after me. Heart racing, i picked up speed again. This time, i was able to reach the fourth gear. Nirvana. I was cruising at 50kmph and towards my destination.
The 12 kilometers to the coaching had taken me almost one and a half hours. I parked and entered the coaching from the back. The teacher shouted at me for missing my lesson. However, i was smiling, singing and soaring. I had learnt the most valuable lesson in my life.

P.S: What happened afterwards is strictly between father and son :P

P.S 2: I did finally buy my own bike with my own money. The feeling was heavenly. I guess thats what my father wanted me to feel. The feeling of having earned the right to enjoy my bike.