The Existential Angst of the Saree Guard

The Existential Angst of the Saree Guard

My Kawasaki Ninja 650 came factory-fitted with a saree guard in 2013. Government requirement, evidently.  I paid to have it removed and get the original handle re-installed.

Last month when I got my Royal Enfield Himalayan, a saree guard looked up at me again. Fragile. Delicate. A complete misfit on the big muscular motorcycle. It could feel it in its bones that no saree would grace the pillion of this bike. It gave me a futile, resigned look. It meant well, but was in the throes of self doubt. “Why do I exist? What is my purpose?”

I tried to convince my saree-clad mother-in-law to ride with me. She is all of 4’ 10’’ and would need a ladder to reach the Himalayan pillion seat, but she was the only likely candidate. However, she has a healthy mistrust of motorcycles. And of me. So that didn’t go anywhere.

When I started gearing up for the Spiti-Pangi ride, the saree guard went into deep depression. Two weeks of long rides with a backpack on the pillion!! And further, this rather dainty, delicate saree guard being sent to Spiti and Pangi Valleys non-existent roads on a mule of a motorcycle – it was like forcing an undernourished, anorexic teenager to play in the pro kabaddi League.

As the trip started, my saree guard started to lose it one screw at a time. 70k in, the first screw went missing.

“What I the meaning of life?” It asked me, as I replaced the screw. “You are helpful but pointless” I almost said. But didn’t. It didn’t choose its existence. Someone else did. Just like humans.

At 500k the replacement screw was also gone, and the frame itself was broken. I fixed it

(literally) with borrowed duct tape and donated bolts. But just another 40k and a resounding clang accompanied every rock we went past.

I dismounted and checked – my worst fears had come true. The saree guard, unable to find purpose or meaning, had joined the many saree guards up in the deep blue sky. My Ninja Saree guard was there as well, waiting along with an angel motorcycle at the gate for the ideal saree clad pillion rider to walk through.

The bodily remains of my saree guard IMG_20160626_065432at its elevated resting place at the Chandratal
parking area.

RIP, Saree Guard. Enjoy the heavenly roads up there.

Ladki beautiful kar gayi chull. At 15300 ft.

Ladki beautiful kar gayi chull. At 15300 ft.

Border Roads became the bro of the nation. Punjabi’s danced at Kunzum pass. Broken bridges simulated Bokaro Jail*. And gaddi shepherds fed me handmade rotis better than any restaurant. Many people have asked to see pictures and hear the stories, so here goes.

IMG_20160623_120908 A
My nation has a bro. Cool.

The trip started with trouble at Dehradun railway station where I disembarked at 5 a.m. along with my bike, but the bike was handed to me by Indian railways only at 9. Two days of mountain riding (some through rain) brought me to Sangla where I stayed 2 nights at Banjara before heading out for the next night halt at the Dhankar monastery guest house – a good choice. Spiti took my breath away again, even though this was my 6th visit.

The next night was a lot more fun as I camped outside Lossar village by the riverbed. Brushing my teeth in fresh snowmelt left my teeth and hands frozen. The next morning I rode up to Kunzum pass – the highest part of my ride at 15,300 feet. I remembered it as a serene, quiet place but reached there to find a Swift with a PB number plate, its doors open and the stereo blaring “Ladki beautiful kar gayi chull”. Two couples were dancing and shooting videos of each other to the loud music in front of the Buddhist Stupa’s advocating peace and oneness. I left quickly.

My next stop was Chandratal, a magical lake at an altitude of 14100 feet. Thankfully, one cannot drive upto the actual lake – a half km walk is required, which takes you to the “beach”. But a walk around the lake convinced me that the nicest part of the lake was the less accessible far end, and it was worth camping a night there. As I headed back to the bike to fetch my camping gear a bunch of 20-something bikers reminded me that I had left my keys on my bike – uncity state of mind, I guess. They also called me uncle (inward cringe).

DSCN3994Magical is the only word to describe Chandratal. Local Spitian women turned up and started singing folk songs and dancing. It was better than anything man could ever manufacture. For starters, where would you find a concert hall like that? To see a glimpse and hear them, click on this link :

Later that evening a pair of gaddi shepherds invited me to eat with them at their “dera”. It had taken them one month to walk up from Kangra and setup their dera at the lake, and would take them another month to walk back. That evening helped me appreciate the amazing skills they possess. They recognize each of the 550 sheep/goats they were herding. Their travel pattern made them fluent in three languages (hindi, gaddi, punjabi) and a smattering of some others. And they cooked everything themselves in goat butter. The food was brilliant. For a peek inside their dera, click here:

Their dwelling in a half-underground hut made perfect sense in windy Chandratal. I also learnt not to leave my floaters outside the main door because all their dirty water and waste is thrown out that door. I walked back to my tent in wet feet smelling of goat fat.

From Chandratal I had three options for my return. I could go back via Rohtang (which I abhor), or go via Ladakh (which I find overdone and oversold). The third option was to go via Pangi valley and Saach pass, which was only a trekking route till a decade ago.

I decided on the Pangi route, and once I entered the valley I really liked it, so I started praying that the road be really bad up ahead. You see, the worse the roads, the fewer the tourists. My wish came so true that my brain was happier than my posterior.

The first night on the Pangi stretch was spent in Udaipur which was big on the map but turned out to be a one mule town where a decent room was hard to come by. The next morning I set out for Killar, the base town to the pass, and it started raining. 31 km into the ride a car coming the opposite way stopped me and told me the bridge ahead was blocked.

Had to cross over this makeshift Jugaad at the broken bridge.

I turned back 11 km and found a PWD guesthouse at a village called Tindi.

I was stuck in Tindi. No control over when I could leave. No one to talk to except some friendly villagers. No connectivity. Food was basic at best – I was eating a lot of my camping food as the guest house offered nothing – not even chai.

Tindi Village was the simulation Bokaro jail* writing retreat for me. This is where I did the maximum writing. After two days I finally got news that the bridge had opened and I rushed across it – and that was scary in its own right. To see a video of the raging river this bridge was over click here:

After a night at Killar I rode across the Saach pass the next morning – a gorgeously beautiful place – over a rough hewn surface (allegedly a road) in places flanked by 10 feet ice walls.

Just short of Saach pass

This road is often listed amongst the “most treacherous” in India.  Ended the long day in a place called Banikhet, which conjured the image of playboy bunnies running around a himachali field. The return was just riding through flat boring plains, the high point being paneer toast at Prakash Coffee House in sadar bazar, Ambala cantt.

Loved every minute of it. Glad I did it (and for a wife who lets me do these crazy things)!!

*This blogger was incarcerated in Bokaro jail for a month in 2013 which is when he wrote his first book “The Bad Boys of Bokaro Jail” which was published by Penguin. Since then he has relocated to the Kumaon Himalayas, and the fun stuff he does besides writing this blog, riding the Himalayas, running marathons and contemplating the universe now also includes hosting the Himalayan Writing Retreat  .

Weird fantasies on two wheels.

Weird fantasies on two wheels.

Uncity means more time and leisure. And more time and leisure mean the ability to pursue personal fantasies – at least some of them. Our fantasies can be weird.

My fantasies often involve motorcycles. Each of us is wired differently and that is what makes us interesting. Motorcycling is wired into me. I have been a biker forever – have owned bikes through my twenties and thirties.

Too many motorcyclists are now the classic 40s mid-life crisis variety. The getting-old-fast or prove-my-manhood thing. But to me motorcycling is not about showing off a fancy set of wheels or making a lot of noise. Nor is it about being a part of some club.

Quite the opposite.

I just like being on two wheels. I want to ride alone, in a place where nobody sees me or my bike. On a quiet mountain road in a high altitude cold desert. When I kill the engine I want to hear my own breathing. I want freedom to stop when I want, camp where I like. Be by myself with just my words. I don’t want people to talk to.

Few places like that remain. One stands out in my list.


It calls. And I am heading there to heed that call while it still retains its pristine beauty. The hordes haven’t arrived there yet, but I fear they will.

My bike is a bit of an unknown. The Himalayan is new, and might spring some surprises yet. But the initial two weeks of owning it have inspired confidence. I have tried to mitigate the risk with spare parts and some training at Royal Enfield workshops (the RE crew has been awesome).

This trip will be about riding and writing. I want to make good time in the Robert M Pirsig way. In “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance “ he famously says “We want to make good time, but for us now this is measured with emphasis on “good” rather than “time” and when you make that shift in emphasis the whole approach changes.”

So  I hope to write. Another project I really look forward to is doing a photo series. In August 1994, driven as much by ignorance as foolishness, a set of 3 friends – including a 23 year old me- had done a much longer bike trip on 100 cc motorcycles. In that trip we rode through Spiti and then continued to Ladakh, and on through Kargil-Drass to Kashmir, to finish at Jammu.

I plan to click pictures of the 1994 spiti locales during this ride (E.g. the featured pic above). It will be fun to see how then and now compare. One sample of the change :

The KB and Himalayan are decades apart, and a small comparison is interesting :

Feature KB 100 Himalayan
Engine capacity 100 CC, 2 stroke 411 CC, 4 stroke
Kerb Weight 120 Kg 182 Kg
Fuel Tank Capacity 8 Litres 15 Litres
Max Power 10.6 PS @ 7500 rpm 24.5 PS @ 6500 rpm
Max Torque 7.9 Nm @5000 rpm 32.0 Nm @ 4000 rpm
Wheelbase, ground clearance 1260 mm, 162 mm 1465mm, 220mm

As you can imagine, I am looking forward to this ride.

Here is another interesting comparison.

Feature Chetan 1994 Chetan 2016
Physical appearance Waist 32, weight 70, black haired. Hirsute. Waist 32, weight 75, greying. More hirsute.
Relationship status Single, in love Married with kids, in love
Attitude Optimistic Optimistic despite jailtime.*
Future Uncertain. Unsure what he will grow into. Uncertain. Unsure what he will grow into.
Tags Management Trainee, teetotaler, wacky Author, biker, marathon runner, Public speaker, Consultant, bewda, wacky.
Motorcycle First : KB 100 Fifth : Himalayan (others : KB 100, KB 125, Suzuki Intruder 800, Kawasaki Ninja 650)

Off I go. Wish me luck.


*Jailtime : I had spent a month at Bokaro Jail and wrote a book about it. Learn more about it at