5 days ago
How a Royal Enfield dream sparked a full-blown family intervention
"Going to Bangalore? Without Amma? For what?" Almost everyone in the room chorused. Almost simultaneously. It was as if I had just returned from Elon Musk's Hawthorne, California, space facility and said, "Hey guys, sorry I need to rush 'cause I have a solo flight to Mars to catch tomorrow morning."
Before the "oohs and aahs" precipitated into beads of sweat, someone grabbed the phone and dialled Munich to let my son know I'm making a solo trip to India's tech hub. Dialling +45 is akin to pressing the 999 emergency number to call police in the UAE. I felt like a convict on parole with an electronic tag tied to the ankle, which my son monitors from his Munich control room.
"Dad is flying to Bangalore. God knows for what! And that too without Amma. Crazy, isn't it?" It was my daughter. She insisted on seeing my Emirates PNR to see if any fellow passenger booked along with me.
They behaved as if I am Pierre Mondy in the 1983 comedy hit The Gift, a farce set in a hotel in Venice. The title refers to a high-priced call girl hired as a parting gift for a retiring bank employee (Pierre Mondy) by his friends, "who hope this will put spice back into his marriage even though he is married to Claudia Cardinale, who does not lack for spice".
What an embarrassment when people look at you as if you have just been caught with another woman in the bedroom.
Looking as stoic as possible like David Bowie in the opening courtroom scene of the war movie Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, I delivered the famous Bowie dialogue, "I'm not guilty."
"Listen guys, this is not a honeymoon trip. A short one to appear for a driving test and complete some home ownership work. Will be back in four days."
"Driving test?" People crooned again. "You already drive a car in India."
"This is a bike licence. My learning permit is expiring in a week. I must go; it's a long-cherished dream to own a Royal Enfield, the Goan Classic in the blue-and-red dual tone."
"Dad, are you mad? Know your age and body. Driving a bike in India is the most dangerous game in the world, especially in the madding traffic of Bangalore." On the speakerphone, my son sounded aghast and frustrated.
"People own a car in India but drive a bike to save on petrol. This is the era of smart living. It makes sense to me." I argued, well aware that it would fly in the face of common sense because I'm still well-healed in Dubai.
"There's something fishy. Why aren't you taking your wife this time. Dad, don't tell me tickets are expensive, I will foot her bill," daughter argued persuasively.
"And what dream are you talking about? A bike? You have achieved much more, dad. Have a safe retirement soon instead of inviting trouble."
I kept quiet. I wanted to argue that the much-cliched phrase, dreams have no expiration date, still holds water. I wanted to tell them life is the continuum of dreams, from point A to point B. The worthiness of your life is dependent on the summation of all the dreams you have achieved — and still want to realise or relive — one last time before the final curtain call.
I am not ready — not yet — to join the laughing clubbers making a fool of themselves in community gardens. I don't want to be a potbellied jogger struggling to keep pace with lanky lasses in the park. I don't want to be part of the sickening retirees boasting of their old sexcapades over a cup of "cutting chai" under a bodhi tree. I don't want to listen to the same old stories of valiance from the Kargil warfront. I have no time for temple renovations or rath yatras.
"Amma, this is why I said we must have a Nest cam back home." Daughter was in a fighting mood. "To let's be abreast of how you guys will be doing."
Camera for what? To spy on my dreams. I slogged a lifetime to raise a family. I watched in despair when life turned into a cemetery of dreams. I did the home burial with my own hands as tears rained down. Now is the time to lift a pickaxe and dig all the graves and breathe life into the carcasses.
I don't want anyone to watch what I eat and when and how I sleep. I don't want people to watch when I throw all my sorries and regrets to cats and pigeons. I want to roam naked in my own little space. I want to serenade myself with the sound of silence. I will cook a kitchen full of hash brown and wedges and drink the best of all Rheingau and Bordeaux.
I will raise a dozen kids who are free to chase their own dreams. I will let them wake up whenever they want, eat whatever they want, drink whatever they want. I will not chase the school bus when we are late. We'll instead chase the clouds on Nandi Hills.
A life finally on my own terms. No more headmasters and principals roaming with sticks. No more deadlines and postmortems. No more emails to sort and messages to reply to. Live life like there's no tomorrow.
Looking through the window at the mirage rising from the sizzling desert sand, wifey finally broke her silence.
