‘Daksh’s here,’ I whisper to Saket. ‘I mean at the resort.’
‘I saw him. He seems happy,’ he says.
I search his face for anything he’s trying to hide. He seems okay. He adds, ‘Does his presence matter?’
‘No, just thought you should know that it doesn’t matter.’
Saket intertwines his fingers with mine, and as we stand before the expansive murals of the Buddha, a calm suffuses me, and it soothes every nerve.
9.
Daksh Dey
‘It’s because I’m small,’ groans Amruta from the bed.
The joke’s old but it still makes me chuckle. Amruta and I avoid going out in the night like the plague. Going out eventually means one drink and then two and thenwho cares we don’t come out often so let’s drink, let’s show people how it’s doneand suddenly we are drunk out of our wits, and dancing and kissing and stealing drinks and getting kicked out of clubs, and we are struggling to find taxis and taxi drivers are refusing to take us home because they are scared we will puke, but we get home, and then in two hours we have to sober up because there are kids to run after and scream at for not finishing their breakfast and curse the bus driver for coming early again and then spending the entire day hungover, but pretending in front of the kids that we are just fine and fully functional. Her hangovers are worse, of course, because as she said, she’s small.
Last night we did go out. At first, we complained that the Long Island Ice Teas were not strong enough, that the barwas trying to trick us, and then when they hit, it was like an eighteen-wheeler had run straight through us.
‘I’ll order something spicy for you and you can eat it thinking it will cure the hangover,’ I tell her, picking up my wallet and the room keys.
‘I’m sorry I’m not coming sightseeing with you,’ she says. ‘I have no idea how you’re even moving today.’
‘But last night was fun.’
She smiles despite her hammering headache.
‘It was, yes it was. It was amazing. But now I’m dying. If you come back and see me dead, please tell my kids I loved them.’
I glare at her.
‘Fine, fine,’ she course-corrects. ‘What are you going to see?’
‘Probably the Big Buddha.’
‘Yes, please do that. I have no interest in organized religion.’
She turns and buries her head underneath the blanket.
I make my way over to the breakfast buffet. I feel a pang of loneliness sitting down to eat by myself. I look around and I’m struck by the stark contrast between two sets of people. On one side, there’s the younger crowd, bleary-eyed and grappling with their hangovers, eagerly discussing how many joints they should buy and who’s paying this time. Then, there are the families, parents marshalling their sleepy kids, putting French toast on their plates. I wonder where I belong, knowing that I want to belong to both.
I down two double espressos and start googling the best way to reach Big Buddha. Hiring a scooter seems to be the more popular choice.
Leaving the resort, burying the slightly sad nature of sightseeing alone, I set out to find a scooter. The first three shops have none to spare. The last one has a motorcycle. It’s a BMW, a cheap, rickety one, but it’s a BMW nonetheless.
‘You’re a handsome man,’ hard-sells the shop owner. ‘You will look good. Scooter for ladies, bike for men like you.’
That’s all he needed to say. I say yes to him. They charge a bomb and tell me the pictures are going to come out nice on it because the weather’s hot and sticky, and I can’t wait to be on my way.
I approach the rented BMW G310R with a mix of excitement and a hint of nervousness—it’s been quite a while since I last rode a bike and this one looks like it will fall apart any moment. As I swing my leg over the sleek, compact but strangely and dangerously rusted frame of the G310R, a sense of familiarity washes over me.
Settling into the seat, I grasp the handlebars. They creak a bit.
Fuck it.
I thumb the starter, and the engine bursts to life with a satisfying rumble. A far cry from the scooter I once used to ride. I ease the bike into gear. The clutch feels tight and unforgiving. The ones who rented me the bike watch me with peeled eyes to see if I drive straight into a parked car. As I pull out on to the road, the bike responds eagerly. A bit too eagerly. The engine surprises me with its peppy torque and the rattling of the chassis that follows. As I drive on, the bike takes on a life of its own, urging me to push a little harder, lean a little further into the curves. I realize I’m basic. I accelerate. Soon, the wind rushes past me, and I’m enveloped by the dumb, exhilarating rush of speed. Despite some rumblings, the bike handles well. Every twist of the throttle delivers just enough power to remind me that it’s an old bike but it has some serious bite. Each kilometre brings a growing smile to my face. Gradually, the scenery transitions as I ascend the winding roads towards Nakkerd Hill. The air gets fresher, and the surroundings greener. The climb steepens and the bike grumbles. The road, though a bit challenging, is well-maintained, thank god for that.Reaching the parking area, I catch my first full view of the Big Buddha.
I park the bike.
