A Rider's Promise.

The other day I was having a conversation with a colleague about investing in a motorcycle. According to him, it was utterly foolish of me to invest in a Royal Enfield at such a young point in my career, where I could have started saving early. I could only smile. And it got me thinking. I, and him, had a very non-intersecting set of ideas. About ourselves. About our surroundings. About our lives. And then I wrote.

A motorcycle to me is beyond transportation. It's something else because it connects me with Life.

A bike is a soul ship. Biking, bridging, it's freedom, it's energy, it's expression, it's fear, it's controlling that fear, it's adrenaline, and you're gonna experience all these things in just one day being on a motorcycle on an open road. 

We humans tend to build up our lives into boxes. And the older you get, the more boxes you have. But these boxes tend to get smaller. And some start to have regrets. Motorcycles actually get you out of that box. Cause you are exposed, you are connected. Connected to the whole world out there, every life you come across, every stray breeze you fly by. Someone has aptly said:

'Riding is the closest a human can get to flying'

And so what if you melt into the crowd? So what if you dont have that one Chai-wala that you go to everyday after office? So what if you dont have the same home to go back to, the same bed, the same arm-chair for a while? So what if you have to get a banging from office if you leave on a trip all of a sudden? So what if the world out there is waiting to deceive you? So what..? It's really a perspective here. I like a little spicy in my pudding now and then. As a matter of fact, I love it. I hate to know everything every damn time. I like surprises. Nothing can always go as you have planned. Where is the fun in that anyways. Hitting a turn you least expected, is how I like it. 

So here I am. On duty. Somewhere in the middle of the Arabian Sea. Hunting for Liquid Gold. On a job, some would say mundane. Many would even doubt on this way of life. What's in it for me? It gives me the push down the cliff, so I can fly. It gives me that moment's thought, all that is required for me to go wild with my imagination, and my actions. And they set me free.

It's still early, some would say. But to me, it's time. To get out. To be impatient. Life is not a highway. It is a road made of intersections. Twists and turns. Created by nobody else, but you. Don't settle. Go. Ride. Find your own pack. Is your engine running? Embrace the head wind. Feel how it can change direction. Just like you can. And here's a promise. Wherever you're going, it won't be boring.

Happy 2015 Ya'll

Till next then

Ciao.

P.S: Thank You Komal.

Did you hear the Whisper?

Did you hear the whisper
that floated by,
that you thought
was your mind
playing games
as usual?
Consumed
as you were
by the noise
inside your head,
did you hear the whisper?
That you tried to catch
but wafted away
even before you could listen?
Did you hear the whisper
like a gentle song
in a distant land
trying to come through
in the roaring traffic
of everyday existence
Did you hear the whisper?

If only I could. Or did I...

Till next then
CIAO

The Alien and me.

Suddenly my view of myself and the universe, would, in that instant be changed, re-evaluated, all the questions I asked from that moment on would be different. Context would be different,
If I came across an Alien today.
What would I say if there were words. Would I shake hands if there were hands ? Or indeed if there was form ? Or would I ignore the Alien as a mere figment of my imagination. And what is wrong with a mere figment of my imagination ? What did I impose upon myself that a figment of of my imagination could never be a figment, perhaps the most significant figment of my existence.
Why have I allowed that being without form, that being that dreams, that being that imagines, that being that continually sees life as play. Why have I allowed that being to turn into an Alien living in a cage of suppression. Knocking on my door from inside my mind.
As the knocking gets louder, pushing against the mundanity of habittuality that takes over as existence, it’s time to let the Alien out. For there is always an alien sitting inside us that is knocking at the doors of our mind with figments of imagination – but over the years we start ignoring those figments as impractical madness.
What is practical anyway ? Or should I say, what is more practical, or, better still, real? Me? Or the alien within me?