Love at first ride

The work that a biker has to do in the office is like eating broth. You never want to eat it unless you are ill. But you don’t really have any option since the doctor has ordered you to do so and your mama stands right above your head to make sure that you finish the plate completely. While your mommy would settle after mumbling for some time and maybe complaining your dad, your boss won’t mind landing his Bata on your behind to see you flying off the window if you didn’t finish the project report which was meant to be sent to god-knows-who. That makes even an easily pursuable and economical passion like biking look like a candy for a five year old. He knows it lies right there above the cupboard, but won’t dare use the stool and climb up to eat it, since mum would find out anyways, and the pain that follows a tight slap is incomparably more than the taste of a candy. Now when you have the Bossy analogue of mum around, with a Veerappan moustache and a fat belly, with forearms good enough to render him fit for a weightlifting championship and a Mogambo voice, you never even think about being a kid and stealing the sweet thing.

Sometimes it happens though that there is a celebration, and the kid is allowed to eat as much as he wants. The advertisements of Pepsodent and the disgustingly ugly looking germs which would unfailingly attack the teeth and eat them up overnight are ignored for a while and the child is treated like a king. Working bikers like calling that day a ‘Weekend’. On that festive occasion, the road is like a tubful of candies and the five year kid aka us cuts loose on the sumptuous feast.

It was one such weekend, and I hadn’t slept for the entire night in anticipation. This dates back to the time when I was new to Pune and didn’t have a clue that this city had a variety of steaming hot barbeque for the wheels of my bike. All they needed to devour it was to travel 60-70 kms, in any direction they wanted to. I am not sure whether I would have lived for the next day had I known these facts at that point in time. I definitely lived then, and from what the chowkidar of my building had to say, I looked like what Shakti Kapoor looks like when he is left all alone with Lalita in an abandoned house. I fathom he must have seen the glimpse of the villain in me as I approached the bike, rubbing my hands in anticipation with a broad, wicked smile of my face.

It’s clinically proven now that the size of my brain is exactly equal to that of a pea. It’s been six months since I came to this city and I still don’t remember any other way except the one from the office to my home. To make things worse, I’ve heard that the pedestrians, bikers, rikshawalas, drivers and the likes in Pune these days are especially wary of a guy who usually rides a Fiero, wears a chequered helmet and doesn’t know Marathi. He is reported to stop them in the middle of the road. He starts by inquiring about the way to someplace and then keeps asking weird questions the answers to which have either been given already or the answers to which don’t exist at all. He keeps torturing, tormenting and emotionally blackmailing them until they faint or run away. So, you know, these days it takes me nearly triple the earlier, usual time for reaching one point to another. All because of a psychotic dunderhead. I don’t even know why my colleagues start fearfully running around in the office, grumbling nonsense the moment I ask them the way to a landmark in the city.

I started off to nowhere that day. Somebody told me that Paud was a nice place to visit as it had plenty of waterfalls and there was a nice, winding road that led to the spot. I was surprised by the fact that it took me just two hours to come out of the city and find the road that led straight to the place. My brain was seriously outperforming that day. I am not sure, it might just have been the result of the excessive anxiety that I had to endure the previous night.

I cannot just stop telling you how much I loved the place once I reached there. I never knew that Pune would be so beautiful. I never knew that the opportunities to scrape footpegs could be so plentiful. I never knew that i would fall for this city at the very first ride

Haria's Story

Haria stands silently near the Ganesh temple. He is purposefully clad in the dirtiest and the most tattered clothes in the world. His filthy and wounded hands in conjunction with his robe produce disgust which force the bikers on the red light to pop out some coins. They do it before he touches them and lends them the fatal infection which would render them lifeless in no time. Haria is jealous of Pappu though. The moment he throws the remnants of his amputated arm towards someone, he shrieks in horror and shoos him away by giving him whatever he has in his pocket. People like Pappu make Haria wonder as to how lucky people could ever get in their life.

I know you must be wondering about the particulars of Haria and what you have to do with such a disgustingly wicked creature. Well, nobody actually knows anything about his father. The identity of his father is a raging controversy among the shopkeepers surrounding the temple. The owners of prasad shops think that he is an offspring of Jaggu Bhikhari who used to keep his mother along with him in the city corporation’s unused sewage pipe. Before he was killed and thrown in the gutter by the policewallahs of course. He had committed the crime of not paying the weekly security charges to them and went pretty vocal with them on the issue.

The flower vendors on the other side of the market, however, have different views. They are quite sure that Haria is not Jaggu’s son. Haria’s mother was taken several times to the police station at late hours in the night after the incident. The Sipahis and the incharge are the more logical probables for them. This uncertainty about Haria’s origin had, at one time, led to another serious ambiguity, as nobody knew what to call him. While some called him ‘H******’ others differed by calling him ‘Bh****’. There were other adjectives also, which he was offered to adorn permanently, but before he grew intelligent enough to make a choice, his mother interfered quickly to give him his proper name.

Haria is a professional. Ever since he started walking, he was taught how to sift through the waiting traffic to ask for alms. He is pretty adept at his job. His height is around 3 feet, which puts his field of vision is exactly in line with the commuters’ pockets. This helps. He could easily make his choice among the scores of prospects which he is supposed to interact with. Very professionally, he makes his choice. He draws close and puts his gammy hand in front of the riders, acting as if he was going to touch them. Once the rider reaches a sickened state of mind, he tries to reach out for some exposed part of his body. Most of the times, Haria immediately gets a coin or two from the frightened rider, but in case it doesn’t happen, he quickly switches on to another prospect without wasting any time. He doesn’t even approach cars as he has been told that it won’t be as rewarding since he won’t be able to intimidate the passengers through the glass of side windows.

Haria has grown up among a jungle of steel rims and rubber tyres. Nothing on the road could ever hit him. The live things which fall at the altitude of his vision are usually hips and bellies. Fat bellies, slim bellies, normal bellies, abnormal bellies, male bellies, female bellies, bellies that are full, bellies which are suffering with constipation, bellies with non-vegetarian food inside, bellies with ice-cream inside, bellies that are never full, bellies that could never be filled. There are all the types of bellies in his view. None of the bellies is like his though. In fact it’s hard to make out whether he has actually has a belly. It’s so small and slim that people sometimes think of him as an alien and give him the money even before he extends his arm.

Haria starts off from one side of the road as the red light turns on, with a perfect ticker running above his shoulder. He exploits innocent people with his wicked idea of earning money and then hits the footpath on the other side of the road exactly before the light turns green. He has never failed at doing that, because he knows that the day he does, he would be history, just like his closest friend Ballu.

Ballu actually had the advantage of not having a leg. One of the times Ballu got trapped for a bait of 5 rupees. He waited for the money as the plump, fat, red and kind youngster struggled to take the currency note out from his front pocket even when the lights had turned green. Though the money involved justified the risk taken, Ballu, with just one leg, wasn’t as quick as most of the vehicles on the road. Ever since the incident happened, Haria is particularly conscious of his timing on the road.

On the other side of the road, there is a chat shop. It’s embellished with all sorts of fruits and other tongue tickling delicacies. As evening draws, tastefully dressed, overly pleasant smelling people huddle around it. This used to be the spot for Haria and Ballu in their good times for some of the most enjoyable feasts of their life. People who came to this stall were especially kind. They threw paper plates of chat in dustbins without licking it even once. Both friends shared the best times of their lives near the dustbin, licking plates which tasted so good that one wouldn’t have minded dying if he got to eat a full plate.

When Ballu was alive, he told Haria that he once found a completely uneaten plate of Bhel Puri in one of the dustbins. In the first instance, Haria didn’t believe him. “C****** banata hai sssala”, he had exclaimed. He was quite logical in not believing Ballu. How on earth could someone throw a full plate of Bhel Puri in a dustbin? But once Haria realized that Ballu had actually managed to get lucky, he didn’t talk with him for two full days. He resumed talking with Ballu only when he promised that if he finds something as good, he would share it with Haria.

The fun that the two guys had together, however, didn’t last for long. One day Haria’s maa spotted him licking plates near a dustbin. For her, this was totally unacceptable. She held Haria by his hair and dragged him right till the sewage pipe, their home. There she slapped her continuously for half an hour till the time he understood that it was suicidal to be so unprofessional. For his mother, she luckily caught him in time. Had he continued with what he was doing for some more days, he would have started looking normal in size. In Haria’s profession, size and state have serious implications on your daily collections.

Haria’s mother is especially particular about the daily collections of her son. She is not as practical as some of her other counterparts. She doesn’t want Haria’s hand to be severed if the collections fall below a certain limit. Nobody understands why she doesn’t want that to happen even when the earnings simply double after it happens. Even though Haria has been pretty strong on the collection charts so far, she doesn’t want to take any chances.

Haria keeps working day in day out. His mother, however doesn’t even rest in the night. Haria simply doesn’t understand where she goes with so many people every evening. He finds her sleeping by his side in the morning though. He doesn’t even bother anymore as he is accustomed this practice now.

With every passing day, Haria’s complexion turns even darker than the day before. With every passing day, his belly turns slimmer. With every passing day the wound in his hand gets pulpier. With every passing day his eyes protrude out one more nanometer, the layer of skin over his ribs gets thinner. And still, surprisingly Haria lives to see another day and goes through the entire scheme of transformations all over again. It’s no big feat though.

Lakhs of Harias are produced everyday. People like you and me who are not Harias exist only in residual proportions. These Harias continuously, untiringly wait on the roadside for the light to turn red. They know the art of doing nothing perfectly. Those who are not as perfect get trampled, beaten or are thrown in a gutter. Those who survive to suffer become a vote. The production of such Harias is always encouraged. They play a vital role in country’s development by helping the greatest leaders in finding a chair for themselves. Even the thoughts of forcing a law on family planning are hushed.

To get through the never-ending traffic and ever-demanding Harias is a must for every living Indian now. We now honk horns, eat smoke, get frustrated and shake our heads in disgust at places where we used to test the top speeds of our bikes. Some Harias turn criminals too. It’s always better to bear the batons of policaewallahs as they are later followed by free chapattis with dal.

Are we in any way responsible for the production and proliferation of Harias? Ideally we should all ponder. We never give it a thought though, because we are not the ones who are concerned. It’s the government’s job.

Government, which loves Harias, as they keep it in power. Power, which everybody wants. Now who is more ignorant, the government, Haria, or us? You tell me.

CRazy Devil from LML, good power, no leash!

What do you expect an enthusiast to do if you tag him as a motoring journo and then make him buy pens, crank the generator, carry computer cartons and hang around cars and bikes without being able to touch them. This! Exactly what you see in these pictures, the very day he gets to put his hands on a driving machine. The poor thing was a 100 cc bike which I had picked up from the LML warehouse, some 20 Kms away from Pune.

The moment I saw it, I thought LML was done for. A pitiful, powerless skinny little bike with fairing, in the land where mortal battles are fought between the likes of Hero Honda and Bajaj? From a manufacturer like LML? Holy shit! Sounds like having lost all your money in a casino, having borrowed more, lost more and getting drunk finally to lose sense before being reduced to pulp by the bouncers. When would these idiots get logical and come out of their 100cc realm which forms their entire galaxy. Peabrains, wags, dunderheads, asses, fools, buffoons… the adjectives went on for some fifteen more minutes until I placed myself on my good old Suzuki Fiero and whizzed past the pathetic thing. Poor Bunny Punia who rode it back to Pune was seen losing himself in the distance when I tried to spot him in the rear view mirrors.

But I had to wait for him, the bike was a responsibility for both of us, and it wouldn’t just have been right had I zipped all the way back home. So I lit a cigarette and waited for him. The disgusting machine was seen crawling its way towards me after some 7 months and 25 days when I had already finished smoking two cigarettes. Just the way I expected, he began telling me about my responsibilities, a technique to smoothen engine parts called running-in and sensibilities that needed to be practiced while riding a new bike. I listened all what he had to say and told him to lead. It’s a different matter altogether that after some five-odd kilometers, he was seen monkeying around in the abundant potholes, no, craters, no, not even that. For all these thing to exist we need something called road, made of tar and little stones and which are nowhere to be seen in their proper form anywhere in this country except in places where you have to shell out some ridiculous amount of money to use them even after having paid the road tax while buying your vehicle and not getting anything of such sort ever after. One more thing, even after you have paid that tax and born the torture of not being introduced to the concept of roads, you will not be allowed to see them if you are on two wheels. Why? Because you are not fast enough to keep up with the over laden trucks which when let loose on full throttle can attain the searing speeds of 35km/h and which have a legal permission from Duke Pinhead III of the Indian kingdom to use the fastest lane even while being stalled. Balls to speed! Those trucks can be overtaken by Atal Bihari Vajpayee even in that age and with those operated knees if you let a couple of dogs loose behind him.

I am from a city called Jaipur. There is a zoo there. In the zoo there is a female chimpanzee called Radha. Radha had a mate some seven years ago, but he somehow broke through the bars only to be reduced to ashes as he hugged an electric pole while it was raining. But that is not important. What is important is Radha’s behind. It looks swollen, and it’s kind of pink. That behind looks exactly like mine whenever I fool myself into believing that it’s possible to ride more than some 400 Kms on state highways in a single day and do it.

Now, I have also heard that some hundred thousand crores of rupees are being spent on ‘improving’ the state of roads that don’t exist at all. I have even seen some overhead sign boards with a picture of the above mentioned leader grinning and pointing his index finger in some direction over the so called highways. One of the days when I was riding through one those ‘highways’, I halted to observe what Mr. Prime Minister was pointing towards, only to realize that there was a roadside dhaba straight at angle zero with a dozen cots peppered outside for the travelers to rest their broken backs. Thank you very much Mr. Prime Minister, I know that scores of them are spread every kilometer and I can walk into any one of them whenever my behind is sore even without your guidance, permission or hospitality. What you are supposed to do, in fact, is to prevent my posterior from turning into a tomato and not grin and tell me where to rest it.

So, we were talking about Bunny who was very comfortably springing around in the valleys and ponds around Pune which my ignorant fellow countrymen still believe are roads. He was doing all sorts of antics, taking some air sometimes, then landing perfectly, twitching the poor little thing sharply and then landing the front tyre straight into one of the countless abysses. To my surprise, the lamentable thing was still holding together, even while my colleague was getting increasingly enthusiastic, which was simply not understandable. He owns a 250 cc 18 bhp bike which is really strong and good for some 135 Km/h. And he is millimeters away from turning it into a piece of crap. Believe me, he is really good at thrashing bikes.

Genuinely baffled now, I tried musing myself by laughing on his idiocy and pitying the woeful bike. He kept on kicking the crap out if it until it finally stalled. There! I smiled wickedly. I knew this machine was crap, I knew there was no sense making such bikes, and most important of all, now I knew I had a chance to make that rascal pay back for his words. I approached him, rubbing my hands in anticipation with all sorts of derogatory statements and words ready, both for him and the bike.

Lousy, as the LML people have always been, they hadn’t put enough gas into the tank, and it was a lack of fuel and not a mechanical failure that had caused the bike to halt. Bereaved of the golden opportunity now, I handed over the keys of my bike to him and told him to get some fuel for the distressing piece of metal.

Waiting for him, I was sitting outside one of those impermanent roadside hotels that the honourable Prime Minister was pointing towards with that hospitable grin on his face. I was smoking a cigarette. There was a small cigarette shop near the dhaba from where I purchased it. While I didn’t really have any interest in the shop itself, the owner was quite an interesting character. For all the while I was absorbed in squeezing the most out of every flake that comprised the stick, spewing clouds of smoke, he was seen observing the bike with the keenness that befits the technical director of the Honda Racing Company. Suddenly he turned his head towards me and in a very inquisitive manner asked whether I had bought it new. Well, he didn’t really know that he was talking to a man with a brand new sticker reading ‘automobile journalist’ over his forehead. So he didn’t understand that this man had the right to ride pristine new bikes from the company showroom to his office. The fact that perhaps he wouldn’t be getting a chance to ride it ever again in his life is a different matter altogether. To make life simpler for him, I replied in the affirmative. Now, even before I had finished, I knew the next question that was about to be popped at me. It came just the way I had presumed. “What mileage does she return?” I didn’t really know, and so did I tell him. “Looks nice” was the next phrase that he used, to send that electric pulse of utter rage throughout my body. Ok, I thought. He is an uneducated mortal from the suburbs, who perhaps hasn’t even ridden a bike in his entire life and has been running this small ‘paan’ shop for most part of his existence on this planet. I don’t really need to give a shit to what comes to his unimaginative little brain. Moreover, I had already spotted Bunny with that bottle riding his way back towards me. And I was just beginning to cool down when he braked to stop the bike near me, bringing that wide, ear-to-ear smile on his face he uttered those words to infuriate me like hell- “This bike rocks!” I couldn’t have endured any more. So I snatched the keys of the pitiable piece of crap from him and placed myself on its puny little saddle. For the entire 4Kms that remained in our way to the office, I must say, I was impressed.

It’s one of the cheapest bikes available, and it has a fairing. Ok, you might not care, but a lot of commuters who want to call themselves ‘executives’, and for the bulk of whom some 26400 tonnes of steel are converted into moving machinery every month do care a lot. This little thing does 0-80 km/h in some 8-odd seconds, putting to shame some of those bigger 125 cc bikes. But that is again not important. If the speed and acceleration really matters to someone, he wouldn’t even look at that bike, owing to its detestable amount of cubic capacity itself. What is more important is the fact that it still manages to return a mileage of 68 km/L in city. Now that’s no bullshit. It’s not a claimed mileage. It’s the mileage that she returned to me after days of spirited riding across the road-less streets of Pune.

Its rear suspension is stiff, real stiff. So stiff that it’ll make the thing start bumping off the ground the moment you get anywhere close to 70km/h. If you have a pillion on, and you try to be an exhibitionist on a smooth looking surface with even minor unevenness, which I exactly did, you could feel the bike bumping into the road and bouncing back. You could clearly feel the chassis wriggling at the bottom, panting to free itself from the torture. It feels like the chassis in creaking, crying for mercy under high speeds. Make no mistake though, it is extremely well balanced and takes those turns and twists with unmatched aplomb until it’s pushed on the bends after the 60-70 territory. It is perhaps the sportiest bike in its class, if you simply want to play around, weaving your way through the traffic. But, and if it’s a big butt, this bike would leave no stones unturned to break it. The rear suspension is like an iron rod. It should have been softer, far softer. It lends the machine amazing balance at mediocre speeds, but just don’t try to push the envelope any further. Those tyres are a victim of malnutrition. They don’t really have a clue what one means by genuine grip and that little engine is a stressed member of that pathetic looking chassis. Even the brakes look like an embryo, with a puny 110mm diameter, they’d never be enough to bring you to a standstill in even double the required time or distance. So hold your horses when this little wonder urges you to act like a gymnast.

Engine sounds harsh, but isn’t actually. It won’t stall at anything. I could tell you that as I have done some 350kms in a day with a pillion on. 200 of which were without roads. I repeat, no roads. Literally. And I must tell you, my behind looked worse than Radha that night when I saw it in the bathroom mirror. So while this bike won’t be sore even after those 350kms of ride, you’d sure be for the next two days. You’ll be spotted on your bed, with a couple of pillows under your Radha-ised bottom. Or you’d rather sleep on your chest, because even the pillows won’t help.

You get a bikini-fairing, you get an economy-power indicator, you get telltale lights, you get a neutral indicator, you get a fuel gauge, you get a side-stand gear-lock, you get a very respectable amount of power and you also get a considerable mileage. But I know that you still want more for that price? Ok, you get that ass breaking suspension, those useless tyres and those ridiculously small brakes. Oh, and you also get a horn that throws more decibel intensity back to you rather than to the traffic on the road. It’s placed right behind the bikini fairing, so all that is emanated crashes with the mask and attacks your own ears, it’s crazy. You have to experience that to believe it.



Finally, this isn’t a bike suited for Mr. Narayan Das who has a wife and two children. Mainly because there are ample better bikes around which are more comfortable and return better mileage. Secondly, Mr. Narayan would be seen hovering around the courts to avoid a divorce if he ever tried to take her wife to dinner on that bike. The reasons may vary from a Radha-red ass to a child that got popped on the road from the lady’s lap when the vehicle hit a mild bump on the road. This defeats the very purpose for which it is made. But if you are an enthusiast with a rock-solid Shwarzneggeranian ass, with very little money to spare, with an obsession for speed (read danger) and with no love for life while being at it, go ahead, buy it.

Just Jokin'

Kartikeya Singhee, colleague of course, bragged about the benefits of Yoga and how he has literally kicked the seasonal diseases out of his body by following the magical gudelines of the 'way of life'. May be i am wrong, perhaps he told me about the benefits of Ayurveda. He is seen here with his set of antibiotics exactly three days after he uttered the words and on the very day of launch. YOGA, MR AYURVEDA SINGHEE.

GOLD PLATED ARTILLERY FROM IRON AGE

You might have loathed Bullets for you entire life, spat venom whenever a discussion about this bike surfaced, ridiculed scores of those blokes who don’t deserve life and yet get to ride a bike. “They’re worse-off riding that bike than die!” you’ve very wickedly mused yourself so often on their pathetic state. You don’t really need to tell me how much a Bullet appalls you. Or how much you adore it. For there doesn’t exist a third classification of humans, right?

Wrong. For, whether someone has lost a couple of dropped jaws, being bowled over by its classic old-bike charm; or whether someone doesn’t even bother to look at this prehistoric piece of evolution, this still is a bike. It still has two wheels connected to some material machinery, and it leaks oil real bad. So the romantics don’t need to write poems in its praise. And it still does its job of commuting from point A to B (“to” sometimes being in excess of a 1000kms) pretty well, so those space-descended aliens can stop cribbing and shut up for the moment.

With all my sanity in place, I vow not to let any jaundiced thoughts to creep into my psyche and stride towards the spanking, sparkling new Bullet Electra that waits for me in the garage. With all the smugness in the world that I could bring upon my face, I position myself on the bike. Trying to justify the macho pedigree of the thing, I crook my face, straighten my spine, try to look as expansive as I can, and push that newly incorporated electric-start switch with great pride. The electric motor tries its bit to bring that titanic piece of machinery to life. It fails. I try again. It fails again. After some half-a-dozen attempts, I find myself unable to carry that bogus expression of pride on my face. So I turn my head around, make sure that no one’s there to see, peel off all the forged expressions, get off the bike and start fiddling with all the little accessories that Royal Enfield has so humbly offered. First I try the decompressor, positioned in the place where you usually find a choke, then the idle screw which is so loose that you don’t really need a screw-driver to adjust it, then the fuel cock which is impossible for a novice to comprehend. Some more bits here and there and I finally land onto the choke. Located on the right, above the cylinder head, this piece is akin to the pull-stop switch for the old Mahindra Jeeps. I pull it once, push the starter button again and the engine comes alive, emanating the age-old thump from the exhaust which is music to a million, cacophony to a couple another.

Being from Rajasthan, the state of Maharajas, I can understand why the Rajputs like riding Bullets so much. With that towering amount of torque at avail, that exclusive feel of surge when you wring the throttle, that distinct thump and those connecting vibes, anyone is but bound to find his face paralysed enough to express any other feelings but those of pride. Something that these descendents of the royal families are obsessed with. Add to that the clearly audible clank (call it clatter when those gears gets stuck, which they do pretty often, though far less than their ancestors) that you hear when you shift. It’s very unlike the Bajaj’s explosive shift sound. It’s a clank, and by that I mean it’s a clank. You can very clearly hear pieces of metal colliding and making a sound, like two heavy (and blunt) swords have clashed in the air. I am not sure whether this sound, reminiscent of medieval battles fought by the likes of Maharana Pratap is one of the reasons behind the eternal love affair that the Banas seem to have with this bike.

Once on the move, the Electra feels quite nimble footed. You shift in the first and the generous torque begins casting its spell on you. The bike surges ahead with a thrust and confidence which I am very sure is unique to the Bullets. These days you have the luxury of having the shift lever and brake pedal in the right places, so, you can handle that force with ease. With those large, discontinued chunks of power at avail, you find yourself pitching ahead with great force and little assurance. Or at least you genuinely feel that way. Move out you pint! Every ounce of your body now sings in chorus with this savage-looking thing. And they actually move out, once they hear that legendary thump. Managing the bike in the city traffic is a breeze as enough torque is available even in higher gears to keep the bike rolling at low speeds with that lazy, low revving engine punching you mildly from down under. The bike manages to roll at speeds as low as 25-30 km/h in fifth gear. One glitch, however, is that the machine sometimes suddenly dies down for a moment and gets the life back in the very next one. This gives you a sudden jerk which is not a good thing to happen on the road; moreover, a newbie may get fooled to believe that he’s soon to run out of fuel. Addition of a fifth cog has made it really easy to keep the post-ton territories inhabited.

Ride quality on an Electra is on the firmer side. Gas shock-absorbers don’t help the stiff ride for a solo as the coils are too stiff to flex under the weight of a normal mortal. With a light rider on, they will officiate only in extreme cases of the bike landing in a deep pothole. That damper in no way helps your belly from being badly disturbed by those commonplace potholes. Ride improves dramatically once a pillion finds his place on the rear and the advantages offered by that damper become pretty evident.

The bike we tested came fitted with a large front disc. These discs are an optional accessory on a 350cc 18 bhp bike which is very capable of achieving speeds in excess of 100 km/h in a pretty short time and isn’t known for its deftness in handling. So the customers are given a chance to go ahead and play around with their lives. How such a big bike can do with drum brakes, which wear out at an express pace and go almost useless in rains is beyond my realm of logic. The disc installed on our bike provided it with a good stopping power, however, you feel like being on the hump of a camel if you firmly press-release the front brake lever. The front fork keeps rippling under the tank for a couple of following seconds. The rear suspension of the bike is too stiff, while the front is just too soft. This mismatch needs to be corrected as it renders the bike very unstable in the situations of emergency braking.

The two tone paint job doesn’t make much difference to those who realise that it’s a Bullet and won’t make you any more exclusive than that old standard bullet from 80’s (Except causing a little more trouble for Bullet bred Banas to shift gears). For those who look at the bike from a fresh perspective, it looks nice. There isn’t much aberration from the traditional classic Enfield styling. The curves and carvings are all the same. A whole bunch of body parts including front forks, crank-case cover, exhaust pipe, headlight, front and rear blinkers and RVMs have been treated with liberal amounts of chrome to keep that classic, retro style alive. The front headlight is now an all new multi focal, clear lens unit, improving the visibility at night many notches. The switchgear is of very good quality and seems to be borrowed from TVS Fiero.

To me, except of a few things like front disc, shift side, shock-absorbers, fifth cog and electric starter this Bullet doesn’t differ much from its ancestors from the 80’s. Mainly because it still has the same technologically hoary mill which leaks engine oil like men leak water. It is as refined as an Assamese’s English accent, keeps stalling for all the weird reasons in the world and makes an absolute waste of that enormous 350cc. But you know what? I have friends who own Bullets from late seventies and those machines have as healthy an engine as the new ones we buy from the Royal Enfield showrooms nowadays. That speaks about the strength of that archaic looking but almost indestructible mill.

I still don’t have any complaints with this Bullet after riding it thoroughly for days together; neither do I find it all that impressive to say a few good words about it. If you believe me when I say that I was an unbiased rider before I tested this bike, I am sorry to disappoint you by saying that I still am. Very honestly, everyone knows what virtues or vices are associated with this bike. Nobody in the world bought a Bullet because it returned great mileage, was very refined or handled beautifully. He did that for his passion for that machine, a feeling that is just too emotional to be governed or described by logic. For all that I could expect from a Bullet, I find myself back to square one with no complaints or compliments for this bike. So, now that you know how I feel, you can decide for yourself how good or bad the bike actually is.