A month-long vacation can hardly be something to be wary of. Unless, of course, you have had to contend with a week-long bout of viral fever. And downtrodden cricket performances on the TV.
May is hardly a significant month. No country I have heard of rose to independence in May. No formula 1 championship was won in May. And I’m sure it means nothing to you that my amazingly lethargic dog came home in a basket, on the third day of May in 2008. May is hardly an example of vibrant nomenclature, as opposed to, say, January, which sounds like a flame orange berry, picked by full-lipped women, and grown in valleys surrounded by snow-capped peaks. May, is just that – may; uncertainty.
May 2010 wasn’t any different. The first week was a blokey affair – endless beer, surfboarding nude towards newly-weds trying to make their presence ‘felt’, filling dozing mates’ trunks with mint toothpaste - try it; apart from letting through a gripping cold sensation, it takes three hours of vigorous scrubbing to rid oneself of it (private parts can take longer, and may come off) .
The rest of May was quite a revelation, honestly. Basking in the glory of not having lost any private organs, I spent the month at my best conduct. This means more free mbs were eaten into on my beloved point-and-shoot, the dog was walked that extra mile, and most importantly, the iPod got substantial updates.
I have often found myself to be noticeably hateful of electro-wizardry. Most of it, I consider unnecessary, and the rest, garbage. But still, my kit-rack is piled with the most comprehensive of gadgetry. There are a few USB drives, at least eight cables which plug every audio device in the world to a car or to a set of ice-cool portable speaker units (of which I have four), a spare Nokia, more cables, and a pretty elaborate calculator. There is also a digital compass, needless to say, for the day I decide to go for a spot of climbing up Mt.Everest’s famed sidewalls, on my way to a haircut. And lastly, but very much the centre of my daily life, is the iPod.
It connects to the car, all four portable speaker units, the home theatre (it took some indigenous cabling), the amplifier in the gym, and INSAT – your friendly neighbourhood satellite. Well, of course I made up the last bit, but what the heck. Great, so now I have music on my way to the barber’s, music in the gym, and music when I’m with people I’m pretending to listen to. I even have an album of Osho’s discourses, thanks to a generous download offer I found on the web the other day.
But last week, disaster struck. Almost the same day as the Boeing 737-800 went down in Mangalore, my father’s laptop (I don’t think I’m ever going to buy one) crashed. And my entire audio library was, in a word, gone. Now, I have no clue how I managed this, but the moment I plugged my iPod in for a fresh update, everything on my iPod was gone too.
A friend later said “Ah, you idiot! That can’t be it. I’m sure you must have got a prompt asking you whether you wanted sheep in your jelly.” Or something like that. Now I never really bother with prompts unless they’re glowing red, with skull-and-bones imagery. But now, every time I plug in an electronic device onto a laptop, I read everything, even all the fine print. Actually, I don’t.
Last evening, which is when everything happens in my life, I took to the best alternative out of more such digitally processed misery – the motorcycle keys.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Code Red
When the British are ordered to stick to speed limits, they all grow worry lines. Jeremy Clarkson writes a new column, and people on holiday hold placards at an inconsequential square. Someone called Chad launches a new community on Facebook, with hateful comments from his pals and the 1,44,203 other users who would have signed up within an hour or so. When the same happens in India, well no, it doesn’t happen, sorry…
That ‘80’ sign you see on the expressway is simply a number to ward off all that is evil and cursed, nothing else. Worse – on the twisty bits of the e-way, some lunatic’s stuck a 30 placard. 30? That’s how much I can do on skateboards – backwards, and blindfolded.
I have never, and I really mean this, been on the e-way in a car going just at the speed limit, forget under it. Sit below a 100, and people will most certainly throw little bombs through your side-window. Under 80, and they stick their butts out, flashing fingers. 60 is what you do during your fling with the toll booth attendant. 40 is only just allowed if you’re running a flat tyre – if you go by the rules, you can run, you can hide, but you can’t stop on the e-way, my love. 20 is what lorry drivers do while they masturbate listening to Red FM’s Naughty Nights with Natasha.
But that’s it. Go any slower, and the people will burn your house down and take your children away to the Rann of Kutch - where they will be distributed amongst vultures. But come to think about it, I’d rather organise for them to be fed to large birds (because I don’t have children) than have our Red Baronesses run them over, left, right, and worryingly, centre.
Pune’s dailies carry, at the very least, one report of a road accident. More often than not, the deceased is a motorcyclist, run over by an errant lorry, or increasingly, government run public transport buses – PMTs and PMPMLs. PMT (and PMPML) drivers are infamous for their careless, often ruthless, driving style. Lurid tail slides, optimal opposite lock, the works – move over, Tiff Needell. If style points were civic phenomena, out bus drivers would score Top Gun.
This week, I am suffering from a multi-grudge syndrome, in that I have not handpicked One face of our rather large populace, but Two. Woohoo! First in line to be shot are aforementioned bus drivers. It’s bad enough they go from 60 to zilch in 1.1 seconds – in the centremost lane, of all the topography available to them. What’s worse is they get from 0 to 60 even quicker, often sideways, giving your new car a striking new paintjob and a spot of flame surfacing.
Second in line, is the ever growing breed of motorcycle conversationalists. These are not the sorts who discuss the finer points of counter-steering having parked by a tea-stall. These are families of four, or politico-wannabes, discussing horseflies, or something else that I couldn’t care less about – whilst riding! Repeated honking has no effect on them, and don’t try gentle ramming either – they are helmetless, and will be killed instantly once you run them over. And you’ll spend the rest of your life in an 8x2 cell, with someone you will recognise immediately – the bus driver, no doubt, in the ‘hanged unto death’ waiting list.
That ‘80’ sign you see on the expressway is simply a number to ward off all that is evil and cursed, nothing else. Worse – on the twisty bits of the e-way, some lunatic’s stuck a 30 placard. 30? That’s how much I can do on skateboards – backwards, and blindfolded.
I have never, and I really mean this, been on the e-way in a car going just at the speed limit, forget under it. Sit below a 100, and people will most certainly throw little bombs through your side-window. Under 80, and they stick their butts out, flashing fingers. 60 is what you do during your fling with the toll booth attendant. 40 is only just allowed if you’re running a flat tyre – if you go by the rules, you can run, you can hide, but you can’t stop on the e-way, my love. 20 is what lorry drivers do while they masturbate listening to Red FM’s Naughty Nights with Natasha.
But that’s it. Go any slower, and the people will burn your house down and take your children away to the Rann of Kutch - where they will be distributed amongst vultures. But come to think about it, I’d rather organise for them to be fed to large birds (because I don’t have children) than have our Red Baronesses run them over, left, right, and worryingly, centre.
Pune’s dailies carry, at the very least, one report of a road accident. More often than not, the deceased is a motorcyclist, run over by an errant lorry, or increasingly, government run public transport buses – PMTs and PMPMLs. PMT (and PMPML) drivers are infamous for their careless, often ruthless, driving style. Lurid tail slides, optimal opposite lock, the works – move over, Tiff Needell. If style points were civic phenomena, out bus drivers would score Top Gun.
This week, I am suffering from a multi-grudge syndrome, in that I have not handpicked One face of our rather large populace, but Two. Woohoo! First in line to be shot are aforementioned bus drivers. It’s bad enough they go from 60 to zilch in 1.1 seconds – in the centremost lane, of all the topography available to them. What’s worse is they get from 0 to 60 even quicker, often sideways, giving your new car a striking new paintjob and a spot of flame surfacing.
Second in line, is the ever growing breed of motorcycle conversationalists. These are not the sorts who discuss the finer points of counter-steering having parked by a tea-stall. These are families of four, or politico-wannabes, discussing horseflies, or something else that I couldn’t care less about – whilst riding! Repeated honking has no effect on them, and don’t try gentle ramming either – they are helmetless, and will be killed instantly once you run them over. And you’ll spend the rest of your life in an 8x2 cell, with someone you will recognise immediately – the bus driver, no doubt, in the ‘hanged unto death’ waiting list.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
The Zen of Fashion
If you were to ever come across a spectacularly ill-behaved Zen, rest assured, it’s a distant relative of mine and you are free to relieve yourself all over him. Once you’ve pulled him over and shot him point blank, that is. He comes from the ‘man in front is an idiot, man flashing is a bastard’ school of driving. He is on first name basis with expressway apexes, and the expressway is three laned because without them, cornering would be “impossible!”
On more than a dozen occasions I was on live chat with the lacy receptionist in Heaven, and she was persistent I joined her for dinner and some foreplay. On reaching my cousin’s in Bombay, the gates of which were a mysterious pearly white (erm), I didn’t so much step out of the car than I leapt out of my skin. I spent the night bathed in a pool of my own sweat – somewhere you don’t ever want to be, and thanks to Tata Sky+, watched Chitrangada Singh do the Aliva cracker commercial for half an hour non-stop. Till I fell asleep with my hands in my pants. Obviously.
Day one was spent at Missy Too Hot for your Pants Homie’s, drinking beer and eating out of boxes of various colours and sizes; and being hit on by attractive women in their teens (that’s an ego boost at its finest). Inevitably, there were excited conversations amongst the ladies about the Fashion Week, which is where chatty women surround various homosexual men called designers.
Have you ever heard them speak? Try listening to a cassette tape play on fast-backward, and you won’t be too far from it. For years, they’ve been turning up at fashion show events with mad hot women, with nothing new to say. Ask them for a sound byte, and all you get is something that, somehow, always ends in “it’s fo casual, yet fo fekfy – fomething you can wear everyday!!!!” WooHoo! How can you wear a thatched roof anywhere except on your head? How hideous will I look if I were to ever wear chrome leather with hair like one of those Limp Biscuit band players? I am no fashion role model; in fact, I’m farthest from being one – the VW Polo of the fashion world. But the more important question is, Where? Where would it be acceptable for me to walk in looking like a Made in China Christmas tree decoration?
Not in a train, no sir. A cab? Umm, no. Not a mall either. To a party? Well, I don’t go to parties unless it is a pure beer-motorcycle-women affair, and dressed like that, I suppose none would fancy sharing dirty secrets with me. Not even after ten beers. To work? Yes, perhaps, if I fancy being ridiculed and sacked in one shot.
This makes me wonder of the purpose of such an event in the first place. The clothes are rubbish, the people behind them are rubbish, and the TV re-runs are rubbish too. On the telly, you’d notice though, that there is constant applause for no apparent reason, and then there’s even more applause when someone falls face first. Which happens a lot. Along with the much awaited wardrobe malfunction – come on, admit it, you dog, you’re waiting for it to happen.
And finally, there are mediapersons, who have gone bonkers. This is the one official assignment they are allowed to carry out in something called party wear, and trust them to come up with questions so out dated, it makes 1400BC feel like it was here just last evening. “Tell us, Rohit, what is fashion to you?” Come fucking On! You ask that every time, you dastardly wannabe journalist! The answers are nonetheless in the vague too.
To some, fashion is ‘within you’ – so fashion could be pancreas, or nerves. One chap did better, saying fashion is looking remarkable – not difficult when you’re wearing a clown hat, kohl and a business suit in magnesium alloy leather. The last chap, however declared that fashion is what ‘you are’. Which is vague, because I am tall, and fashion cannot be tall. Being Indian also makes me brown – but brown and fashion are extreme opposites. But yes, I am hateful to most, and that is exactly what fashion is to me.
On more than a dozen occasions I was on live chat with the lacy receptionist in Heaven, and she was persistent I joined her for dinner and some foreplay. On reaching my cousin’s in Bombay, the gates of which were a mysterious pearly white (erm), I didn’t so much step out of the car than I leapt out of my skin. I spent the night bathed in a pool of my own sweat – somewhere you don’t ever want to be, and thanks to Tata Sky+, watched Chitrangada Singh do the Aliva cracker commercial for half an hour non-stop. Till I fell asleep with my hands in my pants. Obviously.
Day one was spent at Missy Too Hot for your Pants Homie’s, drinking beer and eating out of boxes of various colours and sizes; and being hit on by attractive women in their teens (that’s an ego boost at its finest). Inevitably, there were excited conversations amongst the ladies about the Fashion Week, which is where chatty women surround various homosexual men called designers.
Have you ever heard them speak? Try listening to a cassette tape play on fast-backward, and you won’t be too far from it. For years, they’ve been turning up at fashion show events with mad hot women, with nothing new to say. Ask them for a sound byte, and all you get is something that, somehow, always ends in “it’s fo casual, yet fo fekfy – fomething you can wear everyday!!!!” WooHoo! How can you wear a thatched roof anywhere except on your head? How hideous will I look if I were to ever wear chrome leather with hair like one of those Limp Biscuit band players? I am no fashion role model; in fact, I’m farthest from being one – the VW Polo of the fashion world. But the more important question is, Where? Where would it be acceptable for me to walk in looking like a Made in China Christmas tree decoration?
Not in a train, no sir. A cab? Umm, no. Not a mall either. To a party? Well, I don’t go to parties unless it is a pure beer-motorcycle-women affair, and dressed like that, I suppose none would fancy sharing dirty secrets with me. Not even after ten beers. To work? Yes, perhaps, if I fancy being ridiculed and sacked in one shot.
This makes me wonder of the purpose of such an event in the first place. The clothes are rubbish, the people behind them are rubbish, and the TV re-runs are rubbish too. On the telly, you’d notice though, that there is constant applause for no apparent reason, and then there’s even more applause when someone falls face first. Which happens a lot. Along with the much awaited wardrobe malfunction – come on, admit it, you dog, you’re waiting for it to happen.
And finally, there are mediapersons, who have gone bonkers. This is the one official assignment they are allowed to carry out in something called party wear, and trust them to come up with questions so out dated, it makes 1400BC feel like it was here just last evening. “Tell us, Rohit, what is fashion to you?” Come fucking On! You ask that every time, you dastardly wannabe journalist! The answers are nonetheless in the vague too.
To some, fashion is ‘within you’ – so fashion could be pancreas, or nerves. One chap did better, saying fashion is looking remarkable – not difficult when you’re wearing a clown hat, kohl and a business suit in magnesium alloy leather. The last chap, however declared that fashion is what ‘you are’. Which is vague, because I am tall, and fashion cannot be tall. Being Indian also makes me brown – but brown and fashion are extreme opposites. But yes, I am hateful to most, and that is exactly what fashion is to me.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Cricket, Cops and Niggers
Picture this. It’s half past eight on a Saturday evening. 49.5 overs later, India is on 398, chasing a 400 run target set by Pakistan. Sachin is on 299 – one more run, and history will be made. Two more, and the match is ours.
You’ve finished half a dozen pints already, and your wife has promised to let you buy the damn Fireblade if you buy her a diamond set first. Easy pickins, you say!
And just then, Sachin’s declared run out. The on-field Umpire, who by the way is from the Pak, does not refer to the Umpire in the Pantry at all, and has delivered the wrongest decision of his life. The Bastard!
Imagine. Wouldn’t you, if you ever saw him in person, drown him in sugar syrup, slash him with finicky little cuts with your swiss knife, and feed him to mental red ants? Wouldn’t you have cursed him for ruining your evening? Your beer? The sex that you were going to have?
And this, is my justification to the angry rant that my previous column was. Police work is comprehensive, and thankless, but it often tramples over common man’s inflated ego – and that ego is the source of all conflict. A bit of organised visual surveillance would have cleared the matter on the scene of crime. I’d be in awe of the efficiency of the system, and would certainly be reluctant to voluntarily break the law. Bottom line is : A man in khaki is as human, and hence, as prone to err as the man in my blue jeans.
And here’s a piece of advice to the state machinery : if Con is in, may as well keep niggers on payrolls. Our IPS officers are too brave and well educated to be reduced to taking such cheap shots at our wallets. Niggers, on the other hand, will temp us with their lesbian gangmates’ nipples, while they help themselves to our laptops, Blackberries, and crores. Whatsay?
You’ve finished half a dozen pints already, and your wife has promised to let you buy the damn Fireblade if you buy her a diamond set first. Easy pickins, you say!
And just then, Sachin’s declared run out. The on-field Umpire, who by the way is from the Pak, does not refer to the Umpire in the Pantry at all, and has delivered the wrongest decision of his life. The Bastard!
Imagine. Wouldn’t you, if you ever saw him in person, drown him in sugar syrup, slash him with finicky little cuts with your swiss knife, and feed him to mental red ants? Wouldn’t you have cursed him for ruining your evening? Your beer? The sex that you were going to have?
And this, is my justification to the angry rant that my previous column was. Police work is comprehensive, and thankless, but it often tramples over common man’s inflated ego – and that ego is the source of all conflict. A bit of organised visual surveillance would have cleared the matter on the scene of crime. I’d be in awe of the efficiency of the system, and would certainly be reluctant to voluntarily break the law. Bottom line is : A man in khaki is as human, and hence, as prone to err as the man in my blue jeans.
And here’s a piece of advice to the state machinery : if Con is in, may as well keep niggers on payrolls. Our IPS officers are too brave and well educated to be reduced to taking such cheap shots at our wallets. Niggers, on the other hand, will temp us with their lesbian gangmates’ nipples, while they help themselves to our laptops, Blackberries, and crores. Whatsay?
Con Job - part two
I’m not a fan of quoting people. In the same way that I’m not a fan of being on fire. Or in a bank. But this one had to make its way up here. “You have been stopped for jumping signal” went the Traffic Constable. “Jumping what?! In this, this WagonR?! The light was clearly green, sir” said an amused I. “No argument. Saaheb showed us stop sign. So we jumped in the middle of the road like the primitive beings of yore” Of course he didn’t say the last bit, but I was puzzled.
I’ve never been known as colour blind, or entirely blind for that matter. And here was somebody telling me I’d just mistaken a big round red lamp for a green arrow. So I did the decent thing, and walked straight to the aforementioned Saaheb, who may as well be sitting in far away Zambia. Because from where he was standing, I wouldn’t see him even if he were naked. And on fire.
Certainly not when I had to tackle a proper left hander, while St.AngerSaaheb stood in the rainforests of Africa. You’d rather believe Senna’s ‘I saw Jesus on Raceday’ number than believe in the Saaheb being visible to the naked eye.
And here was a man who, while inside my mouth, said “You are accusing me of lying?! I am standing in sunlight; you think I’m blind?!”
I decided I was going to debate. I explained to him that I regularly wrote about helmet safety, and about responsible motoring, and that I’d rather be in my own arse than being in a queue of motoring criminals with Adam’s apples the size of a bullfrog.
I was disgruntled, but assertive. I had to explain to him that I had, indeed, more faith in cannibalism than in his version of the truth, and that he had been, in one strong word, wrong.
As it stands, I’m writing this piece in my house, and not from the Central Jail. But I’m left amazed, and disappointed in the way they work. How impossible is it, to stand in the middle of the fucking road and mind traffic? Why then, on an impossible-to-look-right signal, was there not One traffic cop asking me to come to bloody halt AT the bloody crossing? Why do I have to pull a telescope from inside my sleeve to look out for a man with so much bad breath, your face erodes if he comes within a yard of it? Why aren’t they just there, in their place, rather than hiding on blind corners like petty criminals?
If I jumped a traffic light, it also means that I endangered somebody’s life while he was on the zebra crossing, talking into his Nokia. But Con Job Cop and his kin were willing to cause death to an innocent man, in favour of increasing Police fucking Revenues. And if that doesn’t hit you, Mr. Shinde, this will – because corrupt pigs like you cannot withstand humiliation. Eff off.
I’ve never been known as colour blind, or entirely blind for that matter. And here was somebody telling me I’d just mistaken a big round red lamp for a green arrow. So I did the decent thing, and walked straight to the aforementioned Saaheb, who may as well be sitting in far away Zambia. Because from where he was standing, I wouldn’t see him even if he were naked. And on fire.
Certainly not when I had to tackle a proper left hander, while St.AngerSaaheb stood in the rainforests of Africa. You’d rather believe Senna’s ‘I saw Jesus on Raceday’ number than believe in the Saaheb being visible to the naked eye.
And here was a man who, while inside my mouth, said “You are accusing me of lying?! I am standing in sunlight; you think I’m blind?!”
I decided I was going to debate. I explained to him that I regularly wrote about helmet safety, and about responsible motoring, and that I’d rather be in my own arse than being in a queue of motoring criminals with Adam’s apples the size of a bullfrog.
I was disgruntled, but assertive. I had to explain to him that I had, indeed, more faith in cannibalism than in his version of the truth, and that he had been, in one strong word, wrong.
As it stands, I’m writing this piece in my house, and not from the Central Jail. But I’m left amazed, and disappointed in the way they work. How impossible is it, to stand in the middle of the fucking road and mind traffic? Why then, on an impossible-to-look-right signal, was there not One traffic cop asking me to come to bloody halt AT the bloody crossing? Why do I have to pull a telescope from inside my sleeve to look out for a man with so much bad breath, your face erodes if he comes within a yard of it? Why aren’t they just there, in their place, rather than hiding on blind corners like petty criminals?
If I jumped a traffic light, it also means that I endangered somebody’s life while he was on the zebra crossing, talking into his Nokia. But Con Job Cop and his kin were willing to cause death to an innocent man, in favour of increasing Police fucking Revenues. And if that doesn’t hit you, Mr. Shinde, this will – because corrupt pigs like you cannot withstand humiliation. Eff off.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Princess Diana in your jeans, anyone?
Now, you must know this chap. He wears a big watch, and drives a souped up sedan. He talks excitedly about the new AreaX PowerLogic 7.0 ECU he’s just ordered online, while clutching his private parts. He also mentions chips, which you must note, have no co-relation with fish whatsoever, and chipping - which is how Big Watch Man derives more horses from under the bonnet, rather than drilling large holes everywhere.
He turns up for weekend ‘meets’ with a laptop computer. Where his mates crowd over his shoulder, as they watch Jessica Alba do an x-rated number in high-res format. And then, after some exaggerated laughter, wheelspins and a bite at the Café Coffee Day, they go home to their respective Facebooks.
While I don’t have much of a problem with these blokes, I do get put off by their cars. It has to be a Honda City with Plaster of Paris moulding on the chin, lots of unofficial sponsorship decals, and Mine’s So Much Bigger Than Yours written all over. In invisible ink.
I have heard of, and this is no typo error, 300bhp Honda Citys (Cities?) in Bangalore. Not enough? Try a DL 3C reg orange Civic with an alleged 400bhp tune-up. That’s a full sixty more than an E46 BMW M3!
Which brings my concern on to characteristics; a word not as lengthy as it is crucial. BWM spends anything between a lakh to a whopping six to eight lakhs on his, as he puts it, ride. That’s eight lakhs over the cost of the car, which itself is roughly 10 lakhs. All this, for characteristics not dissimilar to those of a wet fish on greased ice. The power is quite literally going up in smoke, and the resultant numbers are but a second or two quicker. If I had to choose, I’d rather leave home two seconds earlier than shell out six whopping lakhs to make up for it.
See, a proper supercar with a high-revving engine, race-spec seats, and a gruff howl is as close as you can get to being in bed with a horny Princess Diana trying woman-on-top, biting your ears off, with Iron Maiden on the stereo at 130dB. That’s keeping motorcycles out of the equation, of course. The problem is, you’re being shoved the sport-y platter every time you call for a McSport with nuts. So there’s a sporty new SX4 with a sporty leather wrapped steering wheel, a sporty Hyundai Accent with sporty white dials, and there’s even a sporty Estilo, in pink.
Now, Indians have built sub-10lakh SUVs, estates, roadsters (if you count the San Storm), and even a sub-3lakh electric car for mice. So why not a sub-10lakh rear wheel drive sports coupe? By my mathematics, that would be two doors, two windows, power window switches, ashtrays, an entire rear bench and two seatbelts lesser – money which could be spent instead on extracting more power. And they could offer FRP panels as an addition on the Options List – the darling of the quintessential motorcar manufacturer of today.
Ideally, they should look up the Chinkara; the one car I truly WANT. The one car which, in the Indian scheme of things, is as close to a motorcycle as it gets. It’s proper old school; with mechanical everything and no iAmSoDull techno-wizardry. Someone who drinks strong beer with petrol in it, and rides a two-stroke motorcycle like a madman on fire. A car with so much hair, they should call it the Chinkartikware.
And then, all of us compulsive motorcyclists who look at cars as downtrodden will buy one. So will BWM, and so will his best friend – the disgusting chap who asked who Prince Diana was.
He turns up for weekend ‘meets’ with a laptop computer. Where his mates crowd over his shoulder, as they watch Jessica Alba do an x-rated number in high-res format. And then, after some exaggerated laughter, wheelspins and a bite at the Café Coffee Day, they go home to their respective Facebooks.
While I don’t have much of a problem with these blokes, I do get put off by their cars. It has to be a Honda City with Plaster of Paris moulding on the chin, lots of unofficial sponsorship decals, and Mine’s So Much Bigger Than Yours written all over. In invisible ink.
I have heard of, and this is no typo error, 300bhp Honda Citys (Cities?) in Bangalore. Not enough? Try a DL 3C reg orange Civic with an alleged 400bhp tune-up. That’s a full sixty more than an E46 BMW M3!
Which brings my concern on to characteristics; a word not as lengthy as it is crucial. BWM spends anything between a lakh to a whopping six to eight lakhs on his, as he puts it, ride. That’s eight lakhs over the cost of the car, which itself is roughly 10 lakhs. All this, for characteristics not dissimilar to those of a wet fish on greased ice. The power is quite literally going up in smoke, and the resultant numbers are but a second or two quicker. If I had to choose, I’d rather leave home two seconds earlier than shell out six whopping lakhs to make up for it.
See, a proper supercar with a high-revving engine, race-spec seats, and a gruff howl is as close as you can get to being in bed with a horny Princess Diana trying woman-on-top, biting your ears off, with Iron Maiden on the stereo at 130dB. That’s keeping motorcycles out of the equation, of course. The problem is, you’re being shoved the sport-y platter every time you call for a McSport with nuts. So there’s a sporty new SX4 with a sporty leather wrapped steering wheel, a sporty Hyundai Accent with sporty white dials, and there’s even a sporty Estilo, in pink.
Now, Indians have built sub-10lakh SUVs, estates, roadsters (if you count the San Storm), and even a sub-3lakh electric car for mice. So why not a sub-10lakh rear wheel drive sports coupe? By my mathematics, that would be two doors, two windows, power window switches, ashtrays, an entire rear bench and two seatbelts lesser – money which could be spent instead on extracting more power. And they could offer FRP panels as an addition on the Options List – the darling of the quintessential motorcar manufacturer of today.
Ideally, they should look up the Chinkara; the one car I truly WANT. The one car which, in the Indian scheme of things, is as close to a motorcycle as it gets. It’s proper old school; with mechanical everything and no iAmSoDull techno-wizardry. Someone who drinks strong beer with petrol in it, and rides a two-stroke motorcycle like a madman on fire. A car with so much hair, they should call it the Chinkartikware.
And then, all of us compulsive motorcyclists who look at cars as downtrodden will buy one. So will BWM, and so will his best friend – the disgusting chap who asked who Prince Diana was.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Hard Times
My humble little motorcycle collection (of just two examples), has just had a new addition. It’s an ’05 HH Karizma, black, with 30 thou kms on the digital odometer (yes, I’m showing off). I made a fantastic deal of it, and currently, it’s being put through its paces.
I burned the midnight oil all through March, looking up motorcycle classifieds on the internet. And within the first thirty minutes of the act, I concluded that the concept of depreciation was yet to be discovered by the people of Pune. 87k for a ’93 Standard Bullet? It’s like being asked to pay 87k for a, well, farm animal which has seen seventeen monsoons, gushes oil onto your boots as if there’s no way around, and is as fast as a cow. All of which is true.
And there were the ‘Sporty look Pulsars’ going for Gas denim money. Which is still a lot of money for a motorcycle that sounds like a Sumeet Mixer after a Bloody Mary, and is just about as quick.
In my search for a used motorcycle, I had numerous encounters with people who had all sorts of pearls of wisdom to contribute. While unparalleled motorcyclists of Rohin Nagrani’s ilk imparted with genuinely good advice, there were some others who didn’t.
The highlight, though, was this man with an R15, who made himself sound like he could do the Isle of Man with his hands tied to his back, and blindfolded. “I want my motorcycle to be a hard hard, excuse the language. Even the ‘Fireblade does not inject the sort of fear you’d like. Also, where are the roads to take a ‘Blade to its limits?”
Firstly, anyone who does not buy a Fireblade because our roads are ‘too limiting’ for it, should have an R15 with shredded tyres, razor sharp pegs, and with the tail piece on fire. Also, he should have changed, at the very least, ten dozen knee sliders and should have roughly three quintals of iron rods in his shins. The bloke’s R15 had chicken strips (the cornering patch on tyres) so large, it made chicken look small. His riding posture was all wrong; hanging off unnecessarily, and too much. And the only time he’d got his knee down, was when he got both in one go.
I must clarify, knee downs maketh not a great rider. In fact, getting one’s knee down is become some sort of a raging stunt in India, which is a sad interpretation of the fastest way through a corner. But a person talking about a Fireblade not being a ‘hard hard’ must have underwear the size of DisneyWorld. And aforementioned bloke was nowhere close to it.
I’ve never agreed with people who don’t buy superbikes, or fast motorcycles in general, because our roads are insufficient. A powerful motorcycle ridden to its 40% will still be a lot of fun. And a slow motorcycle ridden hard can be even more of a blast. I can never erase memories of a young(er) me sliding a blue TVS Victor’s tail right before I hit apex, and eventually, a tree. Or outdoing startled Pulsar 150 blokes on my bug eyed Vespa NV.
Somebody famously said “Excuses are like arseholes, everybody’s got one”. Okay, the original number was about opinions, but whatever. An R15 in the right hands is a capable enough tool. More so for our market, which has been on a strict single-downtube motorcycle diet so far. A famous motorcycle journo once said, “99% of the time, motorcycles are always fun”. And that last one per cent, constitutes the rider. Be safe. But enjoy your motorcycle thoroughly.
I burned the midnight oil all through March, looking up motorcycle classifieds on the internet. And within the first thirty minutes of the act, I concluded that the concept of depreciation was yet to be discovered by the people of Pune. 87k for a ’93 Standard Bullet? It’s like being asked to pay 87k for a, well, farm animal which has seen seventeen monsoons, gushes oil onto your boots as if there’s no way around, and is as fast as a cow. All of which is true.
And there were the ‘Sporty look Pulsars’ going for Gas denim money. Which is still a lot of money for a motorcycle that sounds like a Sumeet Mixer after a Bloody Mary, and is just about as quick.
In my search for a used motorcycle, I had numerous encounters with people who had all sorts of pearls of wisdom to contribute. While unparalleled motorcyclists of Rohin Nagrani’s ilk imparted with genuinely good advice, there were some others who didn’t.
The highlight, though, was this man with an R15, who made himself sound like he could do the Isle of Man with his hands tied to his back, and blindfolded. “I want my motorcycle to be a hard hard, excuse the language. Even the ‘Fireblade does not inject the sort of fear you’d like. Also, where are the roads to take a ‘Blade to its limits?”
Firstly, anyone who does not buy a Fireblade because our roads are ‘too limiting’ for it, should have an R15 with shredded tyres, razor sharp pegs, and with the tail piece on fire. Also, he should have changed, at the very least, ten dozen knee sliders and should have roughly three quintals of iron rods in his shins. The bloke’s R15 had chicken strips (the cornering patch on tyres) so large, it made chicken look small. His riding posture was all wrong; hanging off unnecessarily, and too much. And the only time he’d got his knee down, was when he got both in one go.
I must clarify, knee downs maketh not a great rider. In fact, getting one’s knee down is become some sort of a raging stunt in India, which is a sad interpretation of the fastest way through a corner. But a person talking about a Fireblade not being a ‘hard hard’ must have underwear the size of DisneyWorld. And aforementioned bloke was nowhere close to it.
I’ve never agreed with people who don’t buy superbikes, or fast motorcycles in general, because our roads are insufficient. A powerful motorcycle ridden to its 40% will still be a lot of fun. And a slow motorcycle ridden hard can be even more of a blast. I can never erase memories of a young(er) me sliding a blue TVS Victor’s tail right before I hit apex, and eventually, a tree. Or outdoing startled Pulsar 150 blokes on my bug eyed Vespa NV.
Somebody famously said “Excuses are like arseholes, everybody’s got one”. Okay, the original number was about opinions, but whatever. An R15 in the right hands is a capable enough tool. More so for our market, which has been on a strict single-downtube motorcycle diet so far. A famous motorcycle journo once said, “99% of the time, motorcycles are always fun”. And that last one per cent, constitutes the rider. Be safe. But enjoy your motorcycle thoroughly.
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