Legend Diary

His parents had decided to walk down different aisles recently, and after his own move out of the country, Sandeep rarely got to spend enough 'octane’ time with his father. Dividing vacation by three was not his best skill despite being a successful accountant. So when they were finally to do their drinks-and-guitar-picks night, he knew it was to be great. And the beer was to be cold.

They did their meet and father-son warm greet before settling into the cane recliners in the verandah. Sandeep and father clinked their half-litre mugs together, and the excellent speakers rasped the air effectively with their masterful JJ Cale ’79 session reproduction.

“The new Royal Enfield Classic’s the stuff, Pa. This friend you once met just bought a black 500, the single seat variant. It’s beautiful, has twenty seven horses, and is a breeze to ride apparently. One-point-seven-five though...”

Image source - www.olx.in

 

The person that belonged to the “Mr. David Dayanand” name board on the gate responded instantly. 

“But it doesn’t sound like the greats. Like that one the idiot across the road had and didn’t know it. But when he wasn’t beating it up silly, remember that thump? Deep and clean staccato is right. These pretty pieces of aluminum foil just don’t sound the part for me unfortunately. Mick Jagger will never lip sync now, will he, son?”

“Well at least these things don’t create oil slicks in public. And not that I need any more attention from the lady folk, but a Classic these days sure gets ‘em.”

“A yuppie puppy is what you’re barking like. Real women don’t want clean fingernails all the time, son. And real Bullet riders had calf muscles and actually knew how to ride in a group. Oh well, twenty seven horses. That’s probably the only good thing.”

“Pa, you ride one first. It’s quick.” 

“Never. It’s not real.”

 

Growing up, he knew his father had always wanted to buy that silver ’69 Bullet 350 from the neighbour collector who had the love for flash rather than love for machine. Unfortunately the bank statement would never allow it the time. 

Pa owned a spotless deep blue '83 Yezdi Roadking now, and still rode it everywhere at sixty-three. He loved the iconic beat from the twin pipes, and was still as enamoured with the kick starter doubling up as the gear shifter as when he first was in the late-Seventies, when the bike saw Indian sun. Sandeep picked up the empty glasses and popcorn bowl and went to the refrigerator. As he refilled all three, his father lit his third cigarette.

 Image source - www.olx.in

“The kicker on Estelle is not retracting smoothly again. Of all the ‘Kings in the world, I get the only example with the errant piece. I hope Saleem won’t have to open the casing up again. I can’t handle driving all the way up there to keep getting the guy off his rear. Also, I’m wondering whether to change her stripes.”

Sandeep smiled, knowing his father would probably keep getting the custom stripes on the Yezdi tank redone till the world ran out of paint. 

“What about that brown? Like the Classic’s Desert Storm Brown? That’ll go real sweet with the blue.”

“You’re too conventional thinking, I’m going light blue next time.”

“You’re too old. And I’m hungry. Let’s hit the grub.”

Eshwari, his father’s house help since the split, had produced a delightful beer-friendly accompaniment of dosas and chicken curry. They sat down on the table and chomped silently when the Cale CD ended. Sandeep got up and picked Santana’s Black Magic Woman album out, knowing it needed to be played at least once for his father when he had a good share of the funny water.

“Nice one, son. Was the Lammy outside Food World in good shape?”

 

“I still haven’t seen the classic Lambretta red as yet in real life Pa, would you believe it? Four now, but all blue. Tchah! But yes, the 150 was in pretty decent condition. The colour should have been different of course, but the guy obviously takes care of it. The only rust I noticed was on the mirror stalks and she didn’t smoke too much. Unlike you.”

 

Author illustration

“Don’t worry. I’m down to twenty a day now. So relax.”

“That’s a credible effort, Pops. Your heart will only get stronger.”

“Watch that lip, young man, or your new Triumph might mysteriously ride itself away.”

Sandeep laughed and helped himself to a drumstick. Chewing the succulent home cooked meat, he was reminded of how much of an expert in take away food he had become off late. Wouldn’t want to say that to him though, he thought as he wiped the last of the gravy off his plate.

“I’m going to crash, Pa. Long day. The dosas were great.”

“You sure you don’t want a night cap?”

“Not tonight, Pop Tate.”

“And I thought I was the one slowly dying. Okay, granddaddy of thirty one, get some good shut eye and we’ll talk Bonneville before you leave. Bloody hell, she's almost as good looking as Estelle! Good to have you here, son. Good night.”

“Me too, Pa.”

Sandeep walked into the hall where a mattress was laid on the ground under the fan. He was soon asleep, but not before being momentarily saddened again that his father would never accept a new set of wheels from him. The old man of the house downed another couple quietly before trudging heavily to his bedroom. Mugs left outside and some unhealthy coughing later, the small home was dark and silent.

Both generations of the Dayanands grabbing their respective forty winks that night were 'professional' biking enthusiasts. They were blessed to share a passion that always provided simple, pure joy during their short but invaluable stints of together time. Tonight’s memories of icy brews, classic bike banter, crisp dosas and rock music would be fiercely clung to for the future, no doubt.

Sandeep surfaced early next day in the best mood he'd been in for a long time. As he closed the door behind him leaving his father's snores in the distance, he vowed to make time to improve his math skills.