“Where are you going?” He asked me.
I was not comfortable answering that question. He may be a cop, but he was also a stranger. I was driving solo and long distance, so I wanted to be prudent.
“Is there any problem with the road ahead?” I asked politely, evading the question.
“No, I need a ride back home. My duty just got over and my bike is in the garage for servicing. How far are you going?”
His round face, earnest eyes, and the simple way in which he laid down his cards with no silent threat to comply helped me lower my guard.
“I am going to Belagavi but will stop for lunch at Kolhapur.”
“Can you drop me about 40 kilometres from here? You won’t have to get off the highway. There’s a bus station near the highway from where I can get a bus to my village.”
“Sure, come in.” I unlocked the passenger door and moved my backpack to the rear seat, which was already full of stuff for a month-long trip to Tiruvannamalai.
He had a water bottle and a plastic bag, both of which he placed on his lap as he pulled the door shut and locked in the seatbelt.
“Are you comfortable?“ I asked him. He nodded, and I started the car.
As the car powered up, the audio returned to life and filled the cabin with the melodious voice of Kishore Kumar, a popular Bollywood singer from the 70s and 80s.
Ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si… one of the most beautiful songs of this legendary singer, had me lip synching with it. I glanced sideways. The cop was also smiling and bobbing his head back and forth — in rhythm with the music.
Song: Ek Ladki Bheegi Bhaagi Si
“Kishore Kumar che gaane changle ahe na?” I asked him in Marathi.
“Ho lai changle ahe,” he answered, echoing my sentiment that Kishore Kumar’s songs were indeed nice.
And off we went. I switched into the centre lane, driving neither too fast nor too slow, for it would have been weird to get a speeding ticket from a cop sitting beside me in my car.
“I have two bikes. My son-in-law has borrowed one of them for a few days and I’ve given the other bike for servicing,” he said, explaining why he needed to hitch a ride.
“Accha,” I answered. “Kootli bike ahe?” I asked, curious to know which bikes he had.
“Ek Hero Honda ani ek scooter.” He had a Hero Honda motorbike and a scooter.
He continued to tell me more about his vehicles. The scooter was ancient, but the Hero Honda was a recent purchase. He also stressed that he was very careful about servicing his two-wheelers on time.
“They are both in tiptop condition,” he said with a flash of well-earned pride beaming across his face.
We continued talking with the music playing in the background. Ek ladki bheegi bhagi si… ended and Nakhrewali…, another gem by Kishore Kumar, poured out of the stereo.
Song: Nakhrewali
Just as the new song began, a bike sped ahead from the fast lane on the right. Then two more bikes followed suit from the slow lane on the left. The bikes from the left curved in and switched two lanes until they were tailing the first bike in the fast lane.
Three black bikes. Bikers wearing black leather jackets and helmets with a dark visor. Two of them were riding solo while one had a pillion.
After a minute, two more bikes passed us, then one more, and then five more. In the next ten minutes, about thirty bikes had sped ahead.
It was quite a scene as they sped by on their monster machines, leaving my ten-year-old Maruti Swift hatchback coughing on the road.
What’s going on? I thought to myself. Was this one of those secret races a friend had once told me about? I had heard about these underground race clubs and their often dangerous bike races. Was I witnessing one of those clandestine events?
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