Stage 10 · Jaipur – Delhi
The last step
Last stage. The journey is over now. Tonight, at two, my flight. Two in the morning? Yes — every hour counts toward the 700. I leave Jaipur at first light, to have time to deal with any trouble along the way. There isn’t much time left. Originally I’d planned to reach Delhi a day before my flight, just to be safe, but the beauty of the places had pushed me to make the most of every hour I had. I ride the murderous Jaipur–Delhi highway once more. But now I know. The sky is very clear, but it’s brutally cold. Overnight the temperature dropped suddenly. I ride for a long stretch below zero. My hands hurt (the one gear mistake: gloves too light). I stop every twenty minutes to warm them on the engine.
At last I reach the hotel — the same one I started from. Here too they recognize me, make a fuss over me and the bike, ask about the trip, want to know where I’ve been. I tell the story gladly, though a faint sadness hangs in the air. Then I go out to return the bike to J.P., who greets me with a smile. I tell him about my trip — 3,050 km. I catch a nod of appreciation. Looking at the exploits immortalized in the photos behind him, I understand that what I’m telling him is (almost) routine. I’m in a strange mood. I photograph every Bullet I see around. And my own. I tell J.P. I’ll write a book and talk about him. He strikes a pose. I look again at the photos in his shop while he offers me the inevitable tea — the ubiquitous masala chai, hot, sweet milk tea, sometimes served in disposable clay cups. Masala chai. At first I didn’t like it. Now I’ve gotten used to it. Tomorrow I’ll miss it.
I wonder who J.P. really is, what he’s actually done. This passion of his for Bullets is, at the very least, suspicious. Maybe we have something in common, though neither of us could say exactly what. I say goodbye and walk off with a strange feeling. Then I understand: I’m on foot. An unpleasant sensation. I wander the neighbourhood, have a beer — a KingFisher, extra strong. I toast a motorcycle that never once let me down.
Everyone knows that even the longest journey begins with a first step. Less well known is that the longest journey also ends with a last one — in which, often, the emotions of the whole road are concentrated, making it especially important and hard to forget. That evening, in a taxi headed to the airport, I see a square lit by many small fires, arranged in a ring. All people with nowhere to sleep. And it’s cold. Very cold. Each one crouched before a tiny fire, almost embracing it. Some are already asleep, wrapped in a heap of rags. There’s no room; they’re so poor they can’t even share a single fire. Every time I think back on this trip, this scene comes back to me. Then. Home. It’s all a memory already. But an indelible one.
Photographs
