An Indian wife and an Indian bike

APARNA JACOB chronicles the time when her husband became an accepted member of the clan through initiation on an Enfield motorbike

Igrew up in a Malayalee family where every dad, uncle, brother or cousin worth his salt owned an Enfield. I grew up watching them ride around with a distinct air of Malayalee machismo, shirtsleeves rolled up, clad in jeans, trousers or even lungis. Owning a motorbike, especially a Royal Enfield, has always been an essential rite of passage for the men in my family. It marks that heartbreaking transition when boys with their downy upper lips become men, go to college, give rides to girls, make quick trips to the market on their Enfields to procure milk or chicken for aunts, wives or mothers.

Royal Enfield, now synonymous with motorcycles, was originally a British engineering company that also made rifles. “Made like a gun, goes like a bullet,” was their motto and hence Enfield Bullet, their oldest and best known model. Royal Enfield continues to be the oldest motorcycle company in the world and is now based in Chennai, South India. And this should explain my family’s Enfield connection. I still remember the qawwali ad for Enfield Bullet...

”Yeh Bullet meri jaan

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Manzilon ka nishaan

Zindagi ek safar

Chalna shaam-o-sahar

Enfield Bullet...Ghazab ki sawari.”

Every word has been imprinted on my memory forever, because my father owned a red Enfield when we were young. My brother now owns a black Enfield Bullet, frequently takes road trips across the country and occasionally ends up in the hospital.

But as much as I love the men in my family, I harbour a secret aversion to men with exaggerated egos and biceps, excessive testosterone and motorbikes. And that’s why I found myself an Australian husband who was soft spoken not loud, who loved origami not footy, who rode a bicycle not a motorbike.

All this was to change when I took him to meet my Indian family in Mumbai for the first time.

I distinctly remember walking through immigration at Mumbai airport and prepping my husband for the meeting with his inlaws, “Promise me you won’t get on my brother’s bike.”

“I promise!”

“He’s not a very careful rider. He goes really fast,” I lied as an added precaution.

“Don’t worry. I don’t even like motorbikes. They are too dangerous,” he assured me.

But then a week later:

“I think your brother’s bike is brilliant.”

And then:

“I wish I had a motorbike.”

And finally:

“I want a bike! I want a bike! I want an Enfield Bullet!”

All resistance was futile. I never stood a chance against the primordial instinct that lies dormant in every male, no matter how metrosexual or sensitive, awakened by the deep thumping sound of a Royal Enfield Bullet.

After two years of protestations, tears and endless arguments, my husband found himself a red Royal Enfield Bullet which was preloved and based in Melbourne. After lengthy negotiations and paperwork, the bike was delivered to our place late one winter night. We stood shivering in our pyjamas as the freight guy offloaded the bike from his delivery truck. My husband stood nervously beside me, wincing slightly at every bump and thump. And in the moonlight glinting off the shiny fuel tank where it said Royal Enfield Bullet, I saw a big smile break out across his face.

Since acquiring his bike, my husband’s become a Royal Enfield aficionado. He’s an eager ambassador for the brand and is upset when people mistake it for the betterknown Triumph Bonneville. He proudly acknowledges the looks he gets from other men on the street when he rides his bike – grinning kids giving him the thumbs up, those his age nodding in approval, middle aged men in the early throes of midlife crises with barely disguised envy in their eyes, even bums who call out, “nice bike, mate!” My father and brother are chuffed, of course. As far as they are concerned, he is now part of the clan.

“You now have an Indian wife and an Indian bike,” I remind my husband.

“I’m not surprised,” he replies thoughtfully. “They look different and have so much personality and history. The sound they make coming down the street can make your hair stand on end. They are temperamental bastards and refuse to start on cold mornings, and if not treated right when kickstarting, will kick you right back. Not unlike my dear Indian wife.”

I think I’ll take that as a compliment.