Of bull and man

     On the way to check out a scooter, Amit pointed out one particular bull in the fields whose frame he hoped his own young Mario might grow into someday. He had the protruding hump and slender stomach of a potential champion. They briefly stared at each other. Then he drove on.

     The fact that Amit shared many of the same physical attributes he looked for in a bull was not lost on me. He too was short and stout, his thick shoulders resting on a slim torso. Full power, as he liked to say. Krishna, the owner of the nineteen-eighty-something Vespa, was the exact opposite; a tall balding man with a sizeable paunch resting on an otherwise thin frame. About as threatening as a dairy cow.

     He showed us the bike and my heart sank. The original paint was faded beyond recognition. It looked like one of those retro green pastel fridges the US army furnished in model towns used for nuclear weapons-testing. The left side of the platform was almost entirely chewed up by rust. I wasn't exactly sure what spray painting was going to do for this vehicle. Amit failed to get it started and then told Krishna we'd think about it. He gave me the lowdown in the car. This bike would need a lot of work (no shit) and wasn't worth my time. The other problem was that I had no licence and no registration. He suggested I get all my papers in order first. I immediately thought of Kishor's brother-in-law and then quickly erased any notion that I might be able to fast-track my way out of this one. Goa had burned me too many times already. 

     I wanted a motorized two-wheeler as soon as humanly possible. I explained this very simple fact to Amit over Chicken Cafreal, which we had in a small shack next door to the same nursery that had yet to deliver my ivy creepers. It was a cozy little joint. Behind the counter a newspaper pinned to the wall had an ad that asked if Now was the right time to invest in a small-cap fund? He suggested I bring 'the Puja' to eat here sometime and dipped his roll into the curry. I looked at Amit. He knew exactly what I was talking about too. This is the same man (we were the same age, I always kept reminding myself) who had told me he loved nothing more than to just ride endless roads to nowhere when he needed to clear his head. The stuff Harley-Davidson commercials were made of. My ambitions were milder. I just wanted the freedom to travel on my own. And I wasn't about to go exploring South Goa on those rare days the sun decided to show its face on a bicycle. I made that much very clear. 

     Amit smiled and his childhood friend did the same, displaying a mouthful of crooked teeth. He was looking happier now. 'The Amit' did not problem solve very well on an empty stomach.