“ I have something else to show you ,” grinned Buddhi , as he led us through dark lanes , which wound past unknown shops in a seemingly unseen world .
I thought I had seen everything , old Yamaha ’ s being rebuilt by a wizened old sage , on the floor of what looked to have once been a home , still is .
We were ushered upstairs , through floors of rich , brightly coloured clothing , the top end of the local market . In a darkened office , sat a shadowy figure , a man with an heir of importance . He considered our conversation as we spoke of motorcycles , of India , of Australia . Buddhi translated , though I doubt whether this man needed such help , he understood the language both spoken and demonstrated .
With a wave of a hand , he suggested we continue our climb to the upper reaches of the building .
“ No photographs , no mention ,” he demanded as we left the office . I agreed , admitting that this was more about control . Then they appeared .
“ Holy shit !” I apologised to those around me . It had just slipped out . The sight before me had forced an involuntary gasp that exhaled with the expletive . Motorcycles stacked , yes , stacked in every crevice of this aging building . A sheet was removed and more appeared . “ Oh fuck !” I apologised again .
Here was a collection of at least 50 motorcycles , all original as the day they were last ridden . Bikes from the 1960s , the 50 ’ s , the 40s … mostly British , not exclusive to . Prewar Harley ’ s , a couple of Indian ’ s , bloody hell , a Brough Superior … no , three different Fabrique Nationale de Herstal ’ s , those unique bikes of Belgium construction . All were belt drive ; I could only assume they were all earlier than 1905 .
Speechless , I trudged downstairs , unable to speak I nodded as our host again demanded , “ no mention ”. I agreed , hoping that this collection would one day see light .
Ground level brought the reality of Delhi back to the fore . The heat , the sweat , the traffic , and the honky … oh the honky !
The first day had generated thoughts of madness , what was with the incessant noise ? Why did every motorist feel the need to honk their horn ? Why ?
As the insistence of the beep became the background soundtrack to the movement of Delhi it became apparent that the horn is not a tool of anger , not a gesture to road rage , but a ‘ hey you , I ’ m here , and I ’ ll just pop into that space ’. In Delhi , nay , in the general aspect of Indian life , the horn is a tool of communication , traffic etiquette , of the fabric of being . Toot your horn , then move into the space .
‘ Meep , meep !’ A hand waves , the vehicle ahead can see that you will fit
TRAVERSE 77