Cyclists

He stands by the open balcony door. Down below the pool is bubbling with it's last few swimmers until the suns drives them away. The breeze is like a cloud of warmth that envelopes him and for some reason, the hair on his legs rise. The mug in his had has chilled milkshake, hardly as good as he usually makes them. But it is the most wonderful sensation. The warm wind loses its way in his wet hair from a relaxing shower minutes back. Even under it, as the water streams down his face, he hears the roar of an ocean. Everything is still and all his faculties are awake. He feels alive. Perhaps he is in a remote place. It feels like he has tapped into a path lying below the clutter of everyday, where the road is empty, vast, a path that embraces freedom. And there is nothing to stop him if he decides to rush forward. It is this world he seeks to return home to.

His sleep the night before is broken and disturbed. A bit from the apprehension of a tough week ahead at work and a bit from a doubt on whether he will wake up on time. He wakes half an hour later than planned, but rides like the wind. He wishes there were violins humming in his ears.

He meets his fellow cyclists and they begin. He is initially keen on going to South Delhi but in the end, is delighted at not having insisted. They ride through long narrow ridges, go down to the fields until there is no road to lead them forward. There are peacocks and a variety of other birds and butterflies. There are long stretches of smooth deep sand and he realizes it will be silly if he decides to take credit for navigating through them successfully. He is awed by the way the bike performs. He remembers having encountered similar tracks on a ride before and it had compelled almost all of them to get off after a while. He realizes that the bike is a thing of quality and it inspires him more than most people he encounters every day do.

After having researched (lived with burning questions) for decades, and having dissected works by philosophers starting with Hume, Kant, Smith, Einstein, Poincare, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle to name a few, Pirsig had reached a scientific conclusion that true quality, isn't separate from arete and to reach it, there is no substitute for caring. It is the simplest idea, understood often by the rustic, the nomads, the "uneducated" and especially the young.

And what he has observed is that a genuine passion about something is what really inspires others. Not the momentary dreams of worldly greed that takes us further from our answers. He has met more inspiring people among his cycling friends than he has in any of the other areas. The ones who fake inspiration mask doubt. Even among his fellow photographers, there is occasionally a sense of competitiveness which is demonstrated in the lack of variety, abject imitation and in succumbing to the "rules" all across the various photography websites. (Imitation of course is also a sign of appreciation and reverence, but this is a different point.) In his experience till date, cyclists have been kind, helpful, curious and above all more alive and real than so many others. Even here in Delhi, it is no different and he is grateful for that.

They have a delightful breakfast of bread pakodas and tea and by the time he returns, both he and his bike are painted brown in a layer of dust.