Reflections on a motorcycle journey
15–17 December · Ranikhet to Delhi
Delhi is struggling.
The air is heavy,
carrying layers of harm
nano, micro, macro
held low by winter cold,
hovering where lungs meet the world.
Breathing in, breathing out,
the body tightens.
The throat resists.
The heart feels crowded.
Anxiety gathers quietly.
When will we leave this place?
Traffic presses on itself,
bumper to bumper,
movement without flow.
Just days ago, Ranikhet was bright.
We left in sun and excitement,
two bikes pointed south
Towards warmth, towards the sea,
away from the mountain cold.
Passing through Delhi was a choice
not inevitable, just practical.
We thought it would save time,
save effort, familiar plains behind us already
Book the bikes on the train to Ahmedabad.
On the way, we stopped in Sambhal
to spend time with Mehdi
my fellow flautist, my teacher.
We were met with generosity.
He gave us care without measure.
His cousin-sister cooked for us.
Neighbours brought tea,
asked us to stay,
to share upcoming Muslim celebrations together.
We left with hearts softened
carrying the freshness of rural life
Agrarian rhythms,
of kindness
exchanged in friendship
Hindu and Muslim friends
One community
without suspicion.
Delhi feels different.
It is not only the air that is polluted.
Something else is unsettled here
minds stirred, hearts inflamed by toxic words – lies
emotions pushed into directions
they do not need to go.
At the station,
a man helped us with our luggage.
I asked him, gently,
“What is your name?”
The response came sharp,
unexpected
Anger spilling out,
names of viscous senior politicians
spoken with bitterness,
He thought I wanted to check he is Muslim
I felt terrible
To be mistaken for those voices
Those who weaponise religion,
and release poison into our world
My question was meant to be friendly, respectful.
So the shock landed like lightning.
He ran off hurt, muttering.
I ran after him,
I called out,
“Nadim! Nadim!”
Nadim,
a name meaning “trusted friend”.
I wanted to offer recognition,
a small gesture of equality, of shared ground.
But he did not turn back.
He has been wounded
too many times.
The moment lodged itself in my throat
a tightening deeper
than Delhi’s toxic air could cause.
On the train,
fellow passengers settled in.
A gentle adolescent boy
shared sweets prepared by his parents.
Others joined in too,
food passed hand to hand.
Yet Nadim stayed with me.
The man at the station.
The quiet weight
of this tragic misunderstanding
That couldn’t find reconciliation
in words.
