Wanderlust
The mid summer’s breeze gently blew in through the window, setting up an impromptu dance off among the curtains. It carried across with it a sense of serenity. Gently caressing his face, it dried away the tiny specks of sweat. He lay there, motion less, but truly aware of his surroundings. He opened his eyes, to take in the early morning sun, in all its splendor and glory.
He moved a little, rolling over on his back. He threw away the sheets and got off the bed. Gently walking across the room, he stood opposite the full length mirror and admired his reflection. Marc Antony was tall, all 6 feet of him. He wore an old pair of jeans, something he could wear for all 7 days of the week, if he had an opportunity, that is. He looked up at his bare torso. It was lithe, sculpted. He took great pride is his body. He stretched. Front to back and side to side. After staring at himself in all possible directions, he decided to move over, satisfied that he was.
A few steps further lay an old rickety window. The sort of ones you would find on travel and living magazines. It was colorful, yellow and bright. He walked up to the window and drew curtains away, gently. His eyes adjusted to the change of brightness. He squinted, and shielded his eyes using his palms. Once he was accustomed to the brightness, he let go off his shield and took it all in. The splendor of the scene in front of him left him spell bound. He craned his neck all the way left, until his neck muscles would let him. Similarly, all the way right. The complete panorama was worth capturing he thought. But he was a man who believed in making memories, than capturing them. But he did make a mental note, “This is a picture worth a thousand words. Someday, during my old age, my grand children will come up to me for a bed time story, and that time, I would talk off this, of the seas and the shore, of the sun and the sand, of the light and life, about this moment and me”.
He gently looked downwards, towards the spiraling staircase stretching outward from the door. He found Mr. D‘Souza, carefully tending to his plants. Almost in unison, Mr. D’Souza looked up. He nodded gently, acknowledging his presence. So did the Marc, from the first storey. It was a funny little incident that bought these both men together.
A few years back, both of them happened to be on the same flight back home from New York. They were seated across each other, in 2 different aisles. D’Souza happened to chance on Marc’s passport. He was amazed at the variety of stamps which adorned Marc’s passport. One thing led to another and soon, both men started talking about their love for travel, of culture and people. Food and Wine were both amongst the common interests as well. Marc was a collector and D’Souza, a connoisseur.
Marc rather had a strange habit. Every quarter, he would take off. Take off to some destination unknown to him for a week. In that time, the only communication that he would have with the outside world was when he needed to be picked up from the airport on his way back.
Marc’s always on the lookout for the next adventure, next trip. During one such discussion, D’Souza spoke about his Goan villa with great love. 3 months later, Marc found himself living in the very same villa, unknown to the world. This week was to be his and his alone.
A ship’s blaring horn bought him back to his senses. He looked down again. This time, a little further down the spiraling staircase. There was a heap of dried leaves, arranged neatly beside the rickety gate. Further ahead, covered in its enigmatic veil, stood a beast. Veils and beasts didn’t usually go hand in hand. But Marc was different. He treated his beast like a princess. A faint smile escaped his lips, as if involuntarily. He stretched his hands outward, and cracked his knuckles. This was indication enough for D’Souza, who had his eyes firmly fixed on Marc. Both men exchanged another glance, this time, the one of pride.
Marc walked back inside. He walked up to the washroom this time. He looked at his stubble in the mirror. He ran his hand across his cheeks and felt the beard pricks. 3 days, he made a mental note. Old habits die hard they say. Surely did with Marc. He had graced a lot of board meetings, made and received a lot of elevator pitches, if there was one thing that he had learnt from them all was to ensure that you had a breath that smelt good. He flipped open the cap on a mouth wash and poured in a generous amount of it in to his mouth and gargled away. He also threw on some after shave, not that he needed it, but he liked the way it made his beard well.
He walked slowly to the wardrobe and pulled out an old shirt. He put it on and left the top 2 buttons open. He wasn’t heading out a board room, he thought to himself. He grabbed the keys to his beast and headed out. He walked down the stairs, increasing the swagger in each step. He reached D’Souza, who was waiting with a helmet in hand. He took the helmet and walked towards the gate. He stopped a couple of steps away, taking in the surroundings. In one swift motion, he caught hold of the tarpaulin sheet with one hand and yanked it off the beast in a swift motion.
There it stood, radiating in its own glory. A beast fit to tame the jungle, yet, happy to serve as his getaway commute. He had loved this particular piece of machinery since time immemorial. He longed for its presence, for its thump made him forget all else. He walked up close and inserted the key in to it. It blinked as if to recognize that familiar touch. It went crazy. The instrument cluster started displaying welcome signs; the rev meter went all the way to the extreme and back. And it waited, like a predator, breathing slowly, as if getting ready for the kill. Marc got on to the bike. He turned on the fuel supply, gently caressed the fuel tank and whispered to it, “I missed you”.
There is this bond between a bike and a biker, unknown to many, felt by a few. It could probably be amongst the most loyal relationships of them all.
He bent down a bit and pulled out the Kicker. One swift motion with his right leg, and the beast roared to life. D’Souza was grinning now. It was a sight to behold. Marc looked at D’Souza through the rear view mirror and offered a military like salute. D’Souza returned the favor. And with that, Marc left, in a heap of ash and smoke, in a quest to quench his thirst, to quench his wanderlust.
