Exploring North East India: A Journey on Two Wheels

I have always wondered if people are cautious or concerned about age. When I drove solo to Uttarakhand in June many thought I had gone bonkers. How can a person at the age of 55 start traveling alone? I never knew if my actions were concerned or dismayed the people around me. After all, is it not the time to start planning and walking into the sunset? It is paradoxical to hear the same people say “Age is just a number”.

In July, I heard my friend from Namaste India Foundation was organizing motorcycle rides. These rides were in the unexplored terrains of the Northeast. I felt like a 10-year-old waiting for his birthday party, which is still about a month away. He starts anticipating, planning, and, most of all, dreaming about D-day even in his waking hours.

I called up all my friends with whom I had travelled to Ladakh about 8 years back. The responses I got were, “It's too early to commit for November, or, Oh! Car would have been ok but the bike doesn’t seem practical” and so on and forth.  It felt like one balloon bursting at a time even before it was hung. One I wondered where their lives were and the other told me to understand their compulsions in life. In this period I also had a tumultuous time. My mom suddenly fell ill and had to be hospitalized. Unfortunately, after a month and a half fight with her illness, she passed away. During her illness, I had spent a considerable time by her bedside. She used to talk about her struggles. She also shared how she had stolen moments during those struggles to live her life. Both my parents had been avid travellers all their lives. I had seen them travel in any mode and any circumstance. I always remember how every travel added to their bank of memories and smiles. When I told her about my opportunity to travel to the North East, she became more thrilled. She had a brighter spark in her eyes than I mustered at the time, even on her deathbed. One day it was just the two of us in the hospital. She told me, “Whatever the outcome of my illness, you must not miss this opportunity.” You must travel to the North East. Maybe neither of us had travelled to that part of the country. I felt she wanted to see the North East, or at least a small part of it, through my eyes.

She passed away, content I think. Sadness from the loss of a parent was natural. Yet, I never felt grief. I always felt she had lived her life to the fullest in her own way. Her demise was also a journey zestfully fulfilled and completed. I had made up my mind that I was going for this motorcycle ride. I returned to the saddle of a motorcycle after nearly 18 years. There was a short interlude 8 years back when I had ridden in Ladakh.

I can't claim to have much knowledge about North East. Based on hearsay, I was opting for the Meghalaya ride. Atul stepped in again. He insisted that I go for the Mechuka, Arunachal Pradesh ride. “Mechuka” even when I write sounds like a sneeze rather than a place. He said there are no roads to the place. He suggested visiting it before it became a part of the selfies and reels on Instagram. So well, Mechuka it was. After many nays and ayes a week before the 11-day ride, I booked my tickets to Itanagar.

Mesmerized…..maybe bewitched is a better word. That's how I felt when I peeped out of the plane window while landing at the Itanagar airport. The basin of the Dikrong River left me speechless. It was like visualizing a sea with its sand plains and expanse of water. This scene was encompassed by mountains with a tint of blue from the clear blue skies. I was seated in the middle seat. Despite my extra-large size, I let the child inside me take over. I nearly piled over the passenger seat by the window to catch as many glimpses as I. I was unconcerned and oblivious to the discomfort of my fellow passengers.

The sun sets very early in the hills and with the advancing November winter, it sets earlier. So, though I landed around sunset, it was dark when I reached the Gompa Temple Guest House.

Itanagar is the capital of Arunachal Pradesh. Its size is nowhere close to the metro cities we have become used to living in. They still are simple towns with people living rather than running endlessly to seek their lives and livelihoods. There were smiles and faces with content all around. The youth still moved around and talked and laughed with each other. Bless them, the sparse network connectivity has not managed to eliminate the human touch.

When I reached the Gompa temple guest house, some riders were already there. The others walked in with me. The motorcycles that we were to ride also arrived with us.

With a quick fresh and change, everyone was down from their rooms to take charge of their allocated motorcycles. The expressions were a mix of excitement and meticulousness. But I had an extra expression too, of finding that the whole gang was of my age group. At least I won’t be making a fool of myself in front of youngsters, these guys would be more understanding.

I had told Veeru, our tour lead, that I am not a regular rider and haven’t saddled in years. I guess he thought I was being modest. When my first question to him was about the gear shifts, I laughed. His expression of awestruck amazement was unforgettable. But I guess I had set a template for the others as to what was in store for them. That is also when I realized, that it was not a “gang of riders” but a “band of brothers”. Ganesh volunteered to pre-check my bike. He got the clutch adjusted for feathering and adjusted the chain slag. Then, Sameer assured me that my instincts would come back. He said I need not fret. Abhik told me not to worry because he would be on the tail. He advised me to ride at my pace and not worry about catching up with others. Instead, I should enjoy my ride.

All I knew was that I was going to be on a motorcycle and I just had to ride.

The flag-off was the regular welcome of the dignitaries, protocols, photo-ops, and the Jing bang. For the foodie in me, the takeaway was the poori bhaji for breakfast. The pooris reminded me of the typical Bengali luchis. The bhaji was a mix of chana daal cooked in a gravy of potatoes, which was a first for me. Of course, there were the eggs and bananas. They kept the protein levels up and the stomach full yet light.

And off we were.

Our first day's destination was Ziro with a lunch stop at the agro-tourism village of Chullyu. Just short of Chullyu, we saw a football tournament for seniors in Pitapool. This is a village with no proper health or educational facilities. Still, I thought they were still retaining their community bond. They transferred their cultural and social learnings through such activities.

The lunch at Chullyu was an introduction to the warmth of the Arunachal people. It was also the first stop to catch a breath. We had a peaceful glimpse of the 360-degree mesmerizing views of the beautiful Arunachal.

By the time we finished our lunch, it had started drizzling. Rains in the hills are not uncommon. The north-eastern states are subjected to mild to heavy rainfall for at least three-fourths of a year. We donned our rain gear. We mounted the bikes. On the very first day, I went weak in the knees. Everyone chose a road with a descending slope. This would help avoid the short twisting roads of the village. We had taken these roads to Chullyu. Instead, take this shorter route to the highway. I got nervous, I wasn’t sure that I could handle this wet slippery slope. Sameer commented jovially, “Kab tak bachega? You can't avoid these slopes for long. After all, it's just off-roading till Mechuka.” After the slope, I realized the full ride wasn’t much distance to cover. I managed to calm my nerves. I took back control of my ride.

We were to ride in the rain all day. But the rain had a good side. It reduced everyone's speed. I didn’t have to push myself too much to catch up.

Ziro is famous for its Music festival. Unfortunately, people do not know that the region also produces a lot of Kiwi. It also produces the Lalit Guava, besides pears and plums. The locals used to let their fruit produce go to waste. The cause was a lack of connectivity to the major markets. They have now started setting up wineries and adding other value to their produce.  

Horticulture apart, en-route to our homestay in Ziro, three of our bikes slipped in the slushy hilly roads. This included that of yours truly. But I got to learn my riding lesson of the day. Safeguard yourself first, even if it means letting the bike slide. Make sure to switch off the ignition as fast as possible. Do this before dismounting the bike to avert any fuel leakage-related accident. Unfortunately, Ranjit’s (how funny even the way we spell our names changes like our palate. Ranjit is spelled Ranjeet in the North, Ranjith in the South, and maybe a Ronjit or Ronjito in the East. Same person but identified differently in the four directions) bike fell on his leg and he had to suffer burns on the calf of his leg.

Ziro is where I also came across the Bukhari. The big fireplaces in the common area of the houses. The traditional way of keeping the houses warm. The locals showed ingenuity by building platforms over these large places. They used the platforms to dry various items, including their firewood and maize. I was going to be creative as well and dry my jeans, shoes, and gloves, on the platform. I forgot to mention that I made an assumption during the trip preparation. I assumed my gear from the Ladakh ride was in place. During this process, I checked my riding jacket, which I had bought on the trip to Ladakh. Either it had shrunk or I had outgrown it. I preferred to believe in the latter for convenience but then I was forced to carry my leather jacket instead. So everyone wore contemporary riding gear. I stood out, retro-style, riding in my jeans, leather jacket, and outdoor shoes. That gear wasn't necessarily right for the terrain.

We had lunch with the Nyishis and dined with the Apatinis for the day. The Apatini tribe is also famous on the web for beautiful women with facial tattoos and nose plugs. In the past, their faces were tattooed and nose plugs inserted as a safeguard from abductions by tribal raiders. 

If rain slowed everyone else on our ride to Ziro, it allowed me to keep pace. The bad roads on the way to Daporojio (the land of the Nyishi tribe) were a challenge. They ensured that I was on my heels the next day. In its effort to connect the region, the government has a major thrust on infrastructure. As a result, there is major road expansion and widening work going on in the state. The roads of tomorrow were the off-road tracks for us today. We chatted with a few local young men at the tea stall just before Daporojio. They told us that this road was a breeze. It is easy compared to the road from Aalo to Mechuka. But did it matter to me? Nah! My task was to keep the two wheels rolling. I needed to make sure that I kept myself and the bike safe. I also aimed to narrow the distance to the destination.

Luckily the distance from Daporojio to Aalo is not much and the tarmac is good. It was also the day of the World Cup final, India and Australia were to clash in the final match. I am not much into cricket and neither was Meta our riding brother from Roing in Arunachal Pradesh. The two of us slowed our pace. In the next few days, he was going to be my handbook on Arunachal. Our resort in Aalo was near the converging point of the Siyom and Simphu rivers. Aalo was known as Along earlier. Siyom originates from Tibet as Yarlung Tsangpo. It is known as Yargyap Chu in Mechuka. It joins about 50 km of Pasighat in Bramhaputra and becomes Jamuna in Bangladesh.

Aalo is the land of the Galo tribe and the Mopin festival. I didn’t google it.  You gain knowledge when you exchange your Beer cans for well-matured and homemade Poka wine. This happens with a group of local women. You also engage in flirtatious banter. Mopin is the harvest festival celebrated in April and is believed to bestow wealth and prosperity. This is also the festival when the women dress in their finest traditional whites with beautiful thread work done individually.  I also learned that Galo and predominantly all Arunachal weddings focus on the number of Mithuns sacrificed for each wedding. Each bride also receives ancestral beads from her matriarchal elders. Today when I write, I wonder, were they illuminating me or hinting at the insights?

Besides the flirting, Aalo was also where I had wonderful Pork and chicken cooked in soft edible bamboo tubes. We always talk about French Gastronomy but how strange our ancestors brought distinct flavours by cooking a Patrani Machi or a Meen Karimi cooked in banana leaf, I guess I will leave the subject of the palate for another day) this is also where I experienced the two realms of nature when I saw the sun seeping into the tranquil Siyom and rising as soothingly through the mist and clouds encompassing the same river in the morning waking up the humanity as caressingly as a mother wakes her child.

Aalo was a mesmerizing tranquilizer. Yet, it also came with the news that my room partner Kedar would have to cut short his visit. He would return from Aalo itself owing to personal compulsions. Additionally, Ranjit was unable to ride due to the burn on his calf.

Mechuka was a long run. Off-roading with no tar is what the recipe for the day was. “Sir, you can't stop for your cigarette breaks” is what I remember Meta telling me. The road to Mechuka is under construction. Your choices vary between dirt, gravel, slush, and washed-away patches of road. Even if we had good tar roads till Kaying, the fog was a supposed deterrent. But, love the fog is the motto of yours truly. Beyond Kaying the roads got narrower. In fact, from Pame I thought I had taken the wrong turn. We were heading for Payum where we were to stop for breakfast. It was not. It was the only road. It was a road through the narrowest of roads. It was more like a village lane. When I reached Payum, Makarand spoke to me. He said, “How you have lost or taken any other road? There is not any other.” The roads were incredibly narrow. I had to pull aside if a tipper or a fuel tanker was coming from the other side. Did I have a choice? It was their bastion, and you can't blame them. They were making the nondescript roads and running against the two hands on a watch. So every time I had to pull aside. I had no followers. There was no road to take, so I couldn't have lost my way. Additionally, each had to cover his terrain alone due to time slot constraints.

When I reached Payum everyone was stretching, so it wasn’t just me whose bones were chit-chatting with each other. After reaching Payum, the first thing I did was light two cigarettes back to back. Only then did I check the vacant seat at the table and the fare for breakfast. Omelette and Maggi, it was. Back home I despise both. Yet, when you know that it’s your survival food, you don’t just eat it. You ask for a second serving. Also, I have never understood how a simple Omelette and a plate of Maggi taste so delicious in the hills. No wonder it is called the Pahadon wali Maggi (the Maggi of the Hills). On the other hand, I felt like a camel storing the breakfast, lunch, and evening snacks in one go.

Our next target was to cross the block point after Tato. Tato is a district headquarters. If you compare it to the district headquarters of the northern hills, it just looked bigger than a village. But, it appeared smaller than a town. I started even before the others geared up. I had to keep my pace. I realized that we had to beat the clock. I have overcome my urges for a smoke or break but the alluring nature was irresistible. The streams flowing under the bridges had pristine clear waters and the god-planted forest. Had the compulsions of the clock not been there every turn and every stretch of the kilometre shouted out? I crossed Tato long before anybody else was visible in my rear view mirror. No rumble of their motorcycle reached my ears in those silent hills. I pulled to the side for a rest break and a cigarette. Barely had I finished my cigarette when I saw the dust raised by the motorcycles. Aditya was amongst the first. He said, 'Why are you stopping? We are yet to cross the next block point.' So, the cigarette stubbed, and I started the engine again. Hardly a kilometre had we crossed where we came across the blockage point. And blocked it was. We would have to wait till 5 P.M before they would call it a day's work and we would be permitted to ride further. We pleaded to deaf ears. They told us to ride back to Tato. Someone superior would have to sanction permission for them to stop work and let us pass. When you are in a place like Tato, you realize the importance of mobile signals. You can't make a few phone calls and tell them “tu jaanta nahi mera baap kaun hai”. This is where you learn the importance of pleading and humble requests. We all did that and requested but to no avail. They say the divine forces never ignore genuine and humble requests. The divine intervention came in the form of a diesel supply maxi cab. It had come to refill the diesel for the earth-moving equipment. The refill supervisor understood our predicament and said let me talk to the men. After ten minutes he came back. He told us they would move their huge machinery aside shortly for the diesel refill. Then we can cross the checkpoint. Divine intervention it was. In less than ten minutes we had crossed the block point and off we were again, humbled and grounded. Our reward for good behaviour was the Siko Dido falls. If during the day we were made to skip all the so-called waterfalls it was for this mesmerizing spot. The greed in us had our feet fixated on the place. There were innumerable photos to capture. We bought an extra cup of tea to buy us more time at these waterfalls. The beauty of the journey is in its motion and our destination was Mechuka so we had to move on.

After about an hour and a half ride from Mechuka, we had to stop again for the last block point. Luckily, it was only for a very short while. Honestly, it was recouping for the road beyond which was water crossings, slush, and pools of water. By this time, I was mentally in the off-roading zone. I was maintaining the right distances. I even took alternate strips instead of copying what Veeru was trying to lead us through. But all the water crossings had drenched my shoes. The setting sun meant the temperature was also dropping. I took more rest breaks than the others, which curtailed my speed. Remember, they were riding in proper gear and not adventuring the retro style. The path closer to Mechuka was wider yet all gravel.  They say you must see the entrance to Mechuka just before sunset and believe me they are not wrong.  Close your eyes. Imagine a Pink Floyd, Coldplay, or the artist of your choice setting a full stage for you. They are performing just for you. Beyond words isn’t it? Well, that’s how nature sets its stage and plays the concert for you at Mechuka. Mesmerizing, Nah! Bewitched, Nah. Speechless. Our first stop was to get the tanks filled up again. Apili had joined us in the morning at Aalo. She owned a cafe at Mechuka. She asked us to head to the resort to freshen up. We could join her for a relaxed evening later at her cafe.

We headed to the resort run by a soft-spoken Gent and his niece and a single help. Those who got hot water from the solar panel run heaters took a bath. The rest freshened up with a tumbler full of water. They changed into cleaner clothes and headed for the cafe. Apili had told us please come in clean clothes not painted in the day's mud and slush. When we reached the café we understood her appeal, the café was a cosy cocoon of warm hospitality. She had set and arranged the small dais for songs, jokes, and some amazing food. The result, even after ten hours of tough terrain ride neither of us was fatigued anymore.

Laughing, and singing we headed back to the resort and headed straight for the dinner room of the resort. This was a well-deserved meal after the full day's ride and having survived on the omelette and Maggi at Payum.

Well snugged and tired it was a baby's sleep, and of course the next day was relaxed.

I think our subconscious realizes when we are relaxed and at ease. Today the breakfast was at leisure. The bathing water was not red from the rust in the pipes. The iron-laden water had been drained by those who had bathed the earlier evening. The rust-laden pipes show low tourist traffic. This occurs in a location touted as a piece out of Switzerland. Mechuka means water and snow while the earlier name Menchukha meant medicine water and fire in the Memba dialect.  The Memba migrated centuries ago from Tibet. The town itself is about 29 K.M from the Mac Mohan line. It is near the Line of actual control with China. Until recently, it was connected only with an Air Force airstrip. Once the road under construction is completed, it will definitely be a highlight on Instagram selfies. Additionally, matar paneer and shahi paneer will be part of the menus. Till then the local flavours regale. Mechuka. The town is extremely scenic with green pastures surrounded by low hills with pine forests. The town is also famous for the gurudwara of Nanak Lama and the 400-year-old Samten Yongcha monastery. The gurudwara, or the Tap asthan as read the board, is located where Guru Nanak Dev Ji had done tapasya. This occurred while he was en-route to Tibet. I wonder how the saints travelled centuries ago to such far-fetched lands. We often complain about our air travel itineraries too. The gurudwara today is manned and maintained by the soldiers of the Indian army. We were set to head to Dorjeeling. (Yes, I have spelled it right, it's not Darjeeling.) We planned to leave from the Gurudwara. Just then it started drizzling. It was supposed to be a relaxed day. We were not in the regular riding gear, but we were carrying our rain covers in the backpacks. So we pulled over and donned the rain gear. While everyone pulled over under the roadside shelters I decided to ride on. I was leading the way. I think I became careless. I forgot that the drizzle could make the gravel and pine leaves-laden roads treacherous. Behold, I fell into a trap on the roads. My bike slipped on one of the beautiful hilly curves. I was more engrossed in the scenic beauty than the road. Luckily my band of brothers was not far. They came and helped me get up. They also picked up my bike. Aditya our ever-smiling mechanic checked the bike while the rest checked up on me. We had two Adityas in our group and if there was one common denominator it was there never amiss smiles. Makarand congratulated me for joining the Brotherhood of riders. Riders have to fall at some point or the other. Then they pull up again and ride again. (Of course, this was my third slide since our flag-off from Itanagar). They asked me to stretch my legs and arms. Once they realized that I was in one piece, Sameer yelled at me for not having worn my riding gloves. This happened even if it was a relaxed day drive. Abhik told me to saddle again. He said I would have to complete the ride. No one else would substitute for me. I understood why. He did not want the fear to set in me. I did saddle again having understood the importance of the riding gear and the importance of wearing gloves while riding.

My speed slowed down for the rest of the ride. The drizzle had turned into a light shower by the time we reached Dorjeeling. Dorjeeling is a must-visit for its sheer beauty. The pastures of the small meadowed village with the freshwater streams flowing by. The villagers have developed it as a rural tourism village. The local community organizes lunches for tourists with beautiful spreads of the local fare. Apili had also organized a cultural dance show for us, along with a bonfire for us. The bonfire was washed away by the rain but the dances by the local Memba girls were a takeaway too. The music and dance influenced the Tibetan region. The fluidic movements were as soothing as the pine forest breeze of Arunachal. The rains forced most of us to head back to the resort. We skipped the visit to the Hanging Bridge on the Siyom River. Nevertheless, the courageous ones braved the cold rain and visited the hanging bridge.

We reached the resort early, so we packed for the day ride tomorrow. I decided to skip the ride to Aalo. I informed Veeru, “I don’t want to slow the speed”. Tongsna volunteered to fill in for my spot till Aalo. Things sorted it was an evening all to us for food and drinks with unending banter. The resort owner had procured fresh fish and pork to cook the local specialties. Apili came with more of the local wine and fresh Kiwis. If Meta had educated me earlier, I would have known about the local houses being built on stilts. They protect from the heavy rains and keep the domestic animals under them for protection. Leaves are used in a layered format for insulation and ventilation. Woven flattened bamboo is used for flooring and walls. He also told me the strict rules followed for hunting to guarantee a proper ecological balance. But today he shared his aching heart about the long neglect of the North Eastern states. He felt hurt by the alienated behaviour towards the locals when they visited the mainland. How despite the 120 plus local tribes they had retained Hindi as the common language of communication. Despite facing aggression and insurgency from neighbouring China and Myanmar, they have not received as much attention or benefits. They haven't been supported as much as Kashmir. Today, every channel and social media is full of debates on patriotism and hyper-nationalism. Yet, these people have lived patriotism silently. They have done so for decades since independence. I felt intense guilt. I was so ignorant of such a beautiful part of my own country. I have spent over a decade of my life in the travel business in the past. I took pride in being a pioneer in selling many international destinations. Yet I was so ignorant about such a beautiful part of my own country. It had taken me 55 years to visit this beautiful region myself. Yet all these people were always warm, ever smiling and so hospitable. I went to sleep with greater respect for these beautiful souls.

Mechuka had decided to show us another pallet on the morning of our departure. The rain had stopped somewhere in the night. The morning had some amazing hues of sunrise. The upper ridges looked clean and pristine. Fresh snow on the upper ridges was more like artistically thrown icing on a black forest cake. The rain the day before had prepared us for what was coming. We knew there would be more slush along the way. So, it was imperative to start early. Today we not only had to cross Aalo but our destination was Pasighat. It was to be one of the longer ride days. Apili had packed cheese sandwiches for us. My hand and knee hurt from the fall the day before. Because of this, I requested Tongsna to ride my bike to Aalo. He with mile wide smile accepted my plea. I pushed myself. Still, I knew that with over 300 Kilometres to cover, we would face slush and bad roads. It was crucial to reach Aalo as quickly as possible. 

The sky was clear blue, a sight not to miss. Yet, the roads and gravel were slushy and slippery. This did not allow you the liberty to take your eyes off them. Ranjit and I were forced to ride in the back seat of our support vehicles. Both of us were missing the saddle and the handlebars but understood that the group’s fast-paced movement was more pressing. If the others were sliding through the slush, Ranjit and I had more opportunities to stop. We immerse in the beauty around us. We knew very soon we would be missing it. Every time we stopped, we heard the melody of nature. It was an orchestra of wind. There was the rustle of the leaves. We also heard birds we not see in the dense foliage along the highway. The morning ride also gave us a chance to see the menfolk. They were heading for their farm patches or the forest. Machetes (locally known as Dao) were tied to their waist or upper backs. A rare one was seen carrying a single-barrel old rifle on his shoulder. A young couple stopped us on our way. They requested a lift to Tato. They wanted to take their infant to the local hospital. We asked them to hop in the back of the pickup. The lady in her traditional clothing had her infant tied across her torso and all wrapped. She was all smiles and thankful in her gestures.

We reached Tato well in time. We savoured our cheese sandwiches first with a round of regular tea. Then we enjoyed another with the local red tea. Luckily for us, we did not face any rain today. However, the road and the tracks were as bad as one can expect. We started after our tea break. No sooner had we begun than we saw Abhik. He was standing in a feet-deep slush with his bike not moving. His feet were trying to find a foothold. We realized that his clutch wire had broken making his bike immobile. We promptly stopped and saw Aditya rushing with his tool kit. He realized the problem and quickly fetched a spare clutch wire from the back of our truck. In no time with the problem resolved, we were back on the road. The early start had given us a heads up. We crossed the first two block points well in time. We were back in Payum, once again for an early lunch of Maggi and Omelettes. By the time we reached Aalo, it was late afternoon. By consensus, we decided to skip any heavy lunch. Instead, we stretched our limbs over hot samosas and multiple cups of tea.

I had recouped with half a day's rest and decided to gear up again and ride to Pasighat. This was to be the last day of the ride for our friend Meta from Arunachal. I did not want to miss the last leg of the ride with him. The ride from Aalo to Pasighat was one of descending sea levels. The evening was cool but missed the nip in the air we had experienced in the first six days.

Pasighat by far was also one of the bigger towns like Itanagar. It is full of traffic. Local street bazaars with their led lamps showcase the wares. Shopping plazas have their neon sign boards. Although covered by hills on all sides, Pasighat is more in the plains. It is warmer compared to the other large parts of Arunachal Pradesh. It is amazing to see the change in skin colours. The facial features of people change when you cross the different terrains in our country. The build of their body also varies. It's so fascinating to notice how nature changes to meet needs. This includes flora, fauna, and even humans across various terrains. By the time we reached the camp resort, I was yearning to jump out of my leather jacket. We were to stay for the night at the resort. I also longed to gulp down a chilled beer. I gulped a few with Meta and others. Meta was to head back to Roing, his hometown early the next morning. I was going to miss riding with him till another day. He had been my Merlin for Arunachal Pradesh. But I believe that is the beauty of the journey. You meet some and lose some along the path. So build your strings of memory necklaces with various and varied pearls that you find on your path.

Morning knocked on the door with the chirping of the birds. There was no rush in the itinerary of the day. I sat with a warm cup of tea on the bamboo chair on the veranda. I listened to the birds all around and soaked in the green foliage. I realized this tranquillity was very short-lived. Soon, the mornings would buzz with the honking of horns and voices of moving crowds. I made another cup of tea in the electric kettle. I sipped my tea slowly. The last few sips went from hot to warm to cold.

With a cold shower bath in the tent and bags all packed, it was time to head for breakfast. We prepared for the river rafting experience in the Siang River.  Siang or Brahmaputra, as commonly known, is mentioned even in the Kalika Purana. The sage Shantanu and his wife Amogha were blessed by Brahma with his son. This son later transformed into a river. It is the only river with a male name translated as the son of Brahma.

Luckily for the rafting, we just had to don our shorts pull a tee, and slide into slippers. When we reached the spot, we had to jump in our rafts. The river seemed to be flowing at its idyllic peak. We all laughed that the river had decided to go slow keeping our age in consideration. We jumped into the raft and started rowing. Slowly, we realized the strain on our arms as we maneuvered through the increasing currents. With our instructor guiding and yelling we were learning the tricks of left and right rowing. The cold water of the Siang splashing all over us felt so relaxing in the scorching sun. The men in the raft seemed to return to their boyhood. This nostalgic feeling lingered until what we had termed as a grade 0.5 river started throwing its currents and waves. It had the power to overturn 12 people in the raft. It can do so with a slight flick. The river had traversed its course through eons. Its banks, with ancient live and dead trees and sandbanks, were captivating. At times, these sandbanks looked like hillocks. I have always wondered why people travel to international borders. There is so much to see in India that it takes multiple births to see it all. I guess we have never put the requisite effort to boost our cultural heritage and domestic tourism. None of us realized how the two hours had passed. Time flew by when we pulled the raft on the banks. We stopped to alight and head back.

The scorching sun encouraged us to have an afternoon of beers. But, we had to ride to Dibrugarh for our night stay.

We started post-lunch for Dibrugarh our target was to watch the sunset over the Bogibeel Bridge. On recommendation from the resort manager, we took the half-constructed road which was supposed to be a shorter route. We were running low on fuel on our bikes. After about 5 kilometres, we decided to turn back and head via the longer route. There was no visible petrol pump in sight. We could not afford to get stranded.  So with a loss of over an hour and a half, we were back on the highway. The hills ran along the highway till Ruksin, the last town of Arunachal Pradesh. Closer to Ruksin, one side of the highway ran through Arunachal Pradesh. The other ran through Assam. The topography was so different. The moment we turned from Ruksin towards Dibrugarh, we saw the E-rickshaws. We noticed the street bazaars, the roadside stalls, and shops. We also saw overcrowded buses. It was a vivid picture of a densely populated state. This contrasted with the lowest population density of India, where we had been for the last eight days.

By the time we reached Bogibeel Bridge, it was past the late evening. We had missed the sunset we had intended to catch. Bogibeel is a rail cum Road Bridge, nearly five-kilometre long. Standing atop the bridge and looking at the mighty Brahmaputra inspires simply a feeling of awe.

Entering into Dibrugarh we could see tea shops everywhere, after all, we had entered the Tea state of the country. The cooler evenings of Arunachal had turned into hot nights despite November. Somewhere subconsciously we had started realizing that our journey was coming to an end.

Another no-rush morning. Our destination today was Golaghat, close to the Kaziranga Wildlife Sanctuary. When we came down for breakfast we realized the club came from the laid-back old school days. The restaurant staff was yet to come and it was just a small pantry that was catering to us. So the breakfast was more personalized with only two or three people being served at a time. Oh no it wasn’t a buffet spread. The single toaster only managed so much. The induction griddle can pop only one omelette at a time. None of us minded and each one of us wanted to catch more of the moments together. Breakfast over, we had our daily session of group photos. Oh! I seem to have forgotten to mention that Partha is our official photographer. Wajid Bhai is our official videographer. Partha is a soft-hearted and truly artistic Bengali. He has vast experience in nature and wildlife photography. His experience includes stints with Natgeo. Wajid Bhai had an ever-charged battery to jump and click his camera. Besides the camera in his bag, he carried a bottomless cup of stories about Ahom lifestyles. These stories included traditions and culture. You only needed to press the start button. Then, the stories and information about Assamese culture would flow automatically.

We finished breakfast. We were all ready to ride the bikes. Then I realized my gloves were warm for the hot Assam weather. This is when everyone jumped on me and said I can't ride without the gloves or the jacket. So I substituted my gloves for thinner gloves but had no choice but to wear my leather jacket. Off we were and I left my leather jacket unzipped. When we hit the highway, we revved our bikes to speed up. I realized my jacket was flying like a cape. The wind was pulling it. It was pulling on my shoulders. I had no choice but to pull aside and zip up. The highway from Dibrugarh, though under construction, was wide. As a result, on every patch where the construction was underway, the traffic sped on the same carriageway. Both sides shared the lane. The highway driving on the Assam roads is like the Indian democracy. People are aware of their rights but oblivious to their duties.

The area felt more like a home turf. I had driven in parts of Uttar Pradesh and Delhi. In these places, you have to drive more by reflexes than by rules. At least the boys could not beat me up as they did on the mountain twisties. I kept my word. I had given it to my band of brothers at the beginning of the ride. By the end of the ride, the needle on my speedometer had kissed the 100 mark. It also brushed past it. The speedometer reflected the confidence I had gained from riding the motorcycle after nearly a decade. The scorching sun forced us to make more hydration stops than usual. We stopped at a roadside motel for our tea and snacks. There were straw huts there. Home and farm equipment from the past depicted the Assamese culture. It was once again Wajid Bhai’s turf, guiding us and explaining the relevance of each piece of equipment and basket. Explaining to us the difference between the vegetable basket the fish basket to the grain basket. Stilted huts support sustainable living. The huts provide areas below for pigs or cattle. These animals sustain on the waste created by humans. Their waste flows down the drain to fertilize fields and provide food for fish ponds. I have been lucky to travel to many interior parts of the country. When I observe their lifestyles, I am compelled to reflect on their sustainable and eco-friendly way of living. I consider the culture and various geographical conditions. This stands in stark contrast to the borrowed theoretical knowledge we try to impose on them.

I carried my chain of thoughts and found my roads. We reached Jorhat, where Veeru had arranged lunch at a local restaurant. It was not just a lunch but an abridged guide to Assamese cuisine. The good thing was the amazing lunch and hospitality by the restaurant staff. On the flip side, it was tough to get back on the bikes in the heat. This was quite a contrast to the cosy and cool air-conditioned comfort of the restaurant.

The ride post Jorhat was to Golaghat where we reached by evening. At Golaghat, other groups were supposed to join us. They were coming after completing the Meghalaya and the Nagaland circuit. The resort looked like a happy biker congregation. Each face carried a smile. Each smile had a different hue. The scrapbook of memories etched these hues on each individual's mind.

Despite the smiles and enthusiasm we knew the time was ticking for us to part soon. Sameer left for Guwahati. Dharmesh had to leave too. He had to catch a flight from Guwahati to Singapore for a business meet. Abhik and Ranjit returned to their wives. Their wives had come to Golaghat after completing the Meghalaya circuit.

Honestly each one of us wanted the time to stop there itself. We decided to have one last party before the rest of us dispersed. It wasn't just Sameer and Dharmesh. Even Aditya, Makarand, and Ganesh had to leave early morning. We could see the time slipping like grains of sand from our palms. Each one of us wanted to wet our hands. We hoped to have some grains of sand left sticking to our palms.

The next day we were to leave early morning for the Kaziranga safari. I will write about this some other time. After the safari, we planned to head to Guwahati. There, we were to finally hand over our bikes and disperse. Many a time people ask me how I would describe all the varied experiences. I really don’t know. I can talk about the different shades of forests and the terrains. But how do you define the individual sound of every forest? Or the breath of each crisp morning or the smell of every wildflower?

It has taken me nearly a year to pen this article. During the year, I bought a new motorcycle. I met with a major motorcycle accident that confined me to bed for over six months. I had three surgeries and needed more time to recoup. Only then I sit and finish this. But despite all the bridges I traversed, each word brings a memory, a smile, and a face. The feel of the breeze that lashes the face when you ride a motorcycle. The longing to travel, explore, and be once again in Zen while riding. The unknown faces made memories. The new familiar friendly faces still subconsciously poke you. They tell you to heal yourself. Look forward to the day when you saddle the bike again.

So long till then when my mind and eyes sync again and bring more to share with you.