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Even now, whenever I see a wall of dark clouds gathering a few kilometres ahead, my mind quietly leaves the present.
For a second, I'm not driving to work or looking out from my apartment balcony anymore. I'm back on a motorcycle, somewhere on the Karnataka coast, staring at the same kind of sky.
October 2014.
It was a five-day bike trip with a few friends and an office colleague. We covered around 1,400 kilometres, weaving through places like Mangalore, Udupi, Murudeshwar, Gokarna and eventually back to Bangalore through Jog Falls.
We weren't chasing tourist checklists.
If a place looked beautiful, we stopped. If it didn't, we kept riding. That was the plan. Or rather, the lack of one.
Somewhere along the way, just before sunset, we noticed it.
A thick line of black clouds sat about 10 or 15 kilometres ahead of us.
One of us looked ahead.
"Ten minutes?" he shouted.
"Maybe twenty," the other replied.
We all did the same calculation without saying much more. The clouds were moving towards us. We were moving towards them. There wasn't going to be a way around it.
Normally, we would've just pulled over and waited.
But it was already getting late, and we had one thing on our minds, we had to reach our destination before midnight.
So we kept riding.
Straight Into the Rain
The rain didn't begin politely.
It arrived all at once.
One moment we could still see the road stretching ahead. The next, it felt as though someone had emptied an entire lake over the highway.
Our raincoats were technically doing their job.
Or at least they were trying.
Against that kind of rain, they didn't stand much of a chance.
The sound of raindrops hammering against the helmet almost drowned out the engine. Water splashed up from every passing vehicle. The visor kept fogging up. Visibility dropped. Traffic slowed to a crawl. Water had started collecting on the road, and before long there was a jam.
Every few minutes, I'd think, "Surely this will ease now."
It didn't.
So we kept riding.
There wasn't anything heroic about it. We were just wet, tired, slightly cold, and focused on the bike in front of us.
After about an hour, the downpour finally relaxed. Not stopped, just relaxed. The heavy sheets became a steady drizzle.
Good enough.
We carried on.
Then hunger arrived.
Not the usual "let's grab dinner" kind of hunger.
Hungry-as-wolves hunger.
The kind where even a biscuit packet starts looking like fine dining.
A little later, through the drizzle, we spotted a roadside dhaba.
I've forgotten its name.
I don't even remember exactly where it was.
But I remember exactly what we ordered.
Maggi.
Bread omelette.
That's it.
We sat there dripping onto plastic chairs, jackets hanging wherever they could, helmets piled in one corner, steam rising from those plates.
I don't know if I've ever enjoyed a meal more.
Not because it was extraordinary.
Because it arrived at exactly the right moment.
Sometimes that's all good food needs.
Today, when I catch myself watching dark clouds gathering in the distance, that evening quietly returns.
It's funny how memory works.
Out of nearly 1,400 kilometres of roads, beaches, hills and towns, it chooses a rainy highway, soaked gloves, and a plate of Maggi to remember.
Maybe that's because comfort has a way of feeling much richer after you've spent some time without it.
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