Thunderbird Diaries: When a Tap on the Head Kickstarted My Engine

 Thunderbird Diaries: When a Tap on the Head                         Kickstarted My Engine

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My wife shouted.
“What?”
Yes. She scolded me.
“For what?”
Wait... let me breathe, digest, and then tell you.

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon. I was doing what most husbands are best at—absolutely nothing. Staring at the fan blades rotate. Listening to silence. When suddenly she fired the question:

“Have you stopped writing blogs?”

A strange question. Innocent yet loaded.

I replied, “No, I haven’t… but the number of readers has dropped. I don’t think people are really interested in my stories anymore.”

She looked at me with that look—half concern, half mockery.
And asked: “Why?”

I didn’t have an answer. Maybe people are more hooked on 30-second reels. Swipe up. Swipe down. Watch a dance. A bike do wheelies. Some random cook fry an egg on the bonnet.
In that world…
Who wants to read about my childhood workshop, sunbirds on my balcony, or my failed attempt at convincing my mom to buy a bike?

She sighed. Then came closer, tapped my head gently and said:

“You are not writing for the likes, you’re writing for yourself. When you feel good about it, that’s the story you publish. If it brings you joy, someone out there will feel it too. You hid your writing for years in OneNote. Only now the world’s seeing it. Don’t stop, my dear. Your stories are light. Real. Warm. They make people feel something. That’s rare. Just keep going.”

And that was it.

No reel. No music in the background. No slo-mo zoom.
Just a simple tap on the head that restarted the engine of my thoughts.

🚦The Blog That Wasn't Supposed to Be (But Is)

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Truth is, I was supposed to write a story about my cousin and his two little squirrels. But that story is still tangled somewhere in the back lanes of my brain. It hasn’t found its road yet.

What found its road instead…
Was a memory that popped up right after this conversation with my wife.

A story about a mission.
A suspenseful domestic negotiation.
And the thunder that followed the Pep.

Let’s rewind.

🛠️ When Grease Smelled Like Dreams

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The year was 1996.

A big six-foot man with a thick mustache would ride into our workshop on a roaring Bullet. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak. His bike did the talking.

Back then, I was a skinny school kid. Books in one hand, grease on the other. My post-school ritual was fixed:
Drop bag → Run to workshop → Sit and stare at the bikes.

Yes, our house was behind the workshop.
No, not beside. Literally behind it. The kitchen had smells of sambar and diesel.
That’s how it was.

The workshop was my theatre.
And Royal Enfield Bullets? They were the superstars.

My dad worked on them with a devotion that looked more like worship.
The 90s Bullet was a beast:

• Gear and brake both on the right side (acrobatic coordination needed)

• Diesel engine versions (yes, you read that right)

• A thump that echoed into your bones

He once said,

“This bike doesn’t just move on roads. It moves something inside you.”

Back then, I truly believed only giants with arms like pistons could ride a Bullet. I just stood there… staring… storing the sound in my memory.

🛵 From Roars to Whispers – The Scooty Pep Years

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Let’s fast forward to 2013.

My XCD 125 was chilling back home in Hassan. And I? I was commuting to work on a Scooty Pep.
Yes, pink in spirit. Yes, made for college girls.
And yes, it was my wife’s. I had borrowed it like one borrows sugar—politely, temporarily, and often.

Each bump on the road reminded me that dreams don’t always come with telescopic suspension.
But destiny? It has a strange way of kicking in when the time is right.

⚡The YouTube Teaser That Revved My Heart

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One lazy afternoon, scrolling endlessly, I stumbled upon a teaser:
Royal Enfield Thunderbird 350 – New Launch.

And there it was—on my screen, in full glory:

• Projector headlamps gleaming like wolf eyes

• Vertical LED tail lights standing like time portals

• A rider gliding through valleys, as if the bike was floating, not rolling

They weren’t just marketing a bike.
They were calling me home.

I watched the video five times. Maybe six.
Each time, my fingers inched closer to the “Book Now” button.

But first... the real journey began.

🗳️ Convincing the Home Ministry: A High-Level Operation

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Two people.
Two approvals.
One dream.

• President of the house: My wife

• Prime Minister: My Amma

Me: “It’s not just a bike. It’s a lifestyle.”
Wife: “Is it safer than my Pep?”
Me: “This bike is heavier than your car. Of course it’s safe!”
Amma: “Are you planning to join a gang? Or start milk delivery?”

They weren’t convinced.

So I launched a 3-pronged attack:

1. Promised to buy vegetables without cribbing

2. Shared videos where couples looked happier after buying Royal Enfield

3. Whispered, “Don’t you both deserve this comfort too?”

It took 15 days.
Three arguments.
One silent treatment.
And two missed serials.

But finally, the verdict was out:
Approval Granted.

⏳ Waiting Period – Where Dreams Took Shape

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“Sir, it will take 5 months.”

Five months? For a bike? I could’ve gotten a passport faster.

But those 150 days weren’t just waiting.
They were dream-building workshops.

💑 Dream 1: Ride with My Wife

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We’re on a winding road in Chikmagalur.
Fog hugging the hills.
She holds me tighter every time the wind gets colder.
We stop for tea. Laugh about life.
Reality check: She’s scolding me for not wearing thermal socks and for forgetting to fill air in the tyres.

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🙏 Dream 2: A Temple Ride with Amma

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Early morning breeze. She sits sideways with a pooja thali and jasmine flowers.
We reach the temple.
She tells the priest, “He finally got his Bullet.”
He nods solemnly.
Gods smile.

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🧭 Dream 3: Solo Ride

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Just me, the road, and the rhythm of the engine.
Stopping at unknown places.
Talking to strangers.
Writing lines of poetry in my head.
No traffic. No deadlines. Just peace.

📞 The Call That Turned the Key

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And then… it came.

“Sir, your Thunderbird is ready.”

I stood still for a second.
Then called my wife. My mom. Even my neighbor who once said “Bullet is overrated.”

We all went to the showroom like a baraat.

And there it was:
Thunderbird Black with a hint of ocean blue.
Standing like a king. Gleaming like a dream.

🛣️ The First Ride

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I sat.
Took a breath.
Pressed the starter.

The thump hit my chest like an old friend’s hug.
No music in the background. Just the wind. And me.

I didn’t ride towards a destination.
I rode towards a feeling.

People turned.
Some smiled.
One kid even ran after me saying, “Nice bike uncle!”

Uncle?
Okay. Fine. Let’s not spoil the moment.

🏁 From Tap to Thump

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From a lazy Sunday to a roaring bike…
From a tap on the head to a thunder in my heart…
From scribbling in OneNote to writing this blog...

This story isn’t about a bike.
It’s about remembering what moves us.

And if you're still reading this—thank you.
Not because I want likes or shares. But because now you know...

That sometimes, the journey back to yourself… starts with a kickstart.

Infographic of Thunderbird bike

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Some real picture of Thunderbird bike 

Thunderbird bike 

Thunderbird and Road

🪔 The Metro Stranger: A Route That Never Ends

 🪔 The Metro Stranger: A Route That Never                                            Ends

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This is a story that began on a Deepavali weekend.

It was one of those long-awaited weekends. Deepavali round the corner, the whole city was on wheels — people dragging suitcases, auto horns creating their own orchestra, and the roads glittering with brake lights more than diyas. You can guess — the grand migration from Bangalore had begun.

You know that scene, when everyone’s rushing home and the city feels both alive and empty at once.

You might ask, “What’s new about that?”
Wait. I never start a story without a reason. But even so, what follows isn’t only about Deepavali or travelling—it’s about moments that catch you off-guard, where your mood tilts quietly with the day.

The Plan

It was Saturday. My younger one had already decided the day would be dramatic. My mother was heading back to Mysore after her short stay with us, and my little one — all of three years — refused to let her go.
Tears, tantrums, emotional blackmail — the full package.

So we had a plan: once she fell asleep after lunch, we’d quietly make our move.
And that’s how our journey began — me, my mother, and a familiar chain of Bangalore companions: Auto → Metro → Auto → Satellite Bus Stand.

The Metro Ride

The Metro felt crowded. People carried sweets, new clothes, and a rush to get home.

We managed to find seats, and just as the train halted at ITPL, a man entered. Mid-thirties, plain shirt, a small black backpack. He sat beside me — quiet, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the window.

A few minutes later, he unzipped his bag and started taking out notebooks — not one, not two, but several.
Of course, curiosity kicked in.

On the first page, I saw something that made me pause — neat handwriting, bold titles:

• Route Detail: ITPL to KSR — every stop, distance, time.
• Description: how each station looked. Notes like “KR Puram – red footbridge, two trees near gate.”
• Pilgrimage List: Horanadu. Subramanya. Sringeri. Dharmasthala. Written in order, like a plan.

He flipped through another notebook — same handwriting, same routes. The same details again and again.

When the train moved, he paused his earphones, scribbled something, then looked out of the window, almost like cross-checking his notes with the world outside.

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As I watched his routine, questions formed in my mind.

Something about him felt… unusual. Not threatening—it unsettled me, quietly, for reasons I couldn’t explain. My curiosity turned into a deeper discomfort, even as I tried to appear casual.
It wasn’t what he wrote, but how he did it. Repeatedly. Methodically.
Like someone trying to remember what can’t be forgotten.

Every page carried the same stations.
The same list of temples.
The same routes written over and over, like a prayer that refused to fade.

And that’s when the thought struck me —
What if he isn’t planning a trip ahead? What if he’s rewriting one from the past?

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The Story Within

Let’s imagine.

Years ago, maybe this man — let’s call him Arun — was on a pilgrimage with his parents. A small family trip, the kind where mothers pack idlis wrapped in banana leaves and fathers complain about the winding roads but never stop humming old songs.

It must have been nice — rain in the hills, bells ringing, a peaceful drive.

But fate never knocks. It just turns up—often at a bend—and when it does, everything inside you goes still before you even know what changed.

Maybe it was Charmadi Ghats. Misty morning.
A sharp turn.
A truck from the opposite side.

A flash. A scream.
And silence.

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When Arun woke up, all he saw were hospital walls. The smell of medicine lingered.
They told him he survived.
No one told him what part of him didn’t.

His parents were gone.
But in his mind, they never left.

The accident had erased the ending but trapped him in the beginning — that endless road trip to the temples.

Now, every familiar sound pulls him back — the chime of a temple bell, the hum of a metro, even the metallic echo of train doors closing.

Doctors call it traumatic retrograde memory disorder.
I’d call it something simpler — a loop that won’t let you go home.

Since then, every weekend, he takes the same route — ITPL to Satellite Bus Stand.
He notes down the stops.
Lists the temples.
Writes, erases, rewrites — as if finishing the map might bring the journey back.

Maybe he still believes his parents are waiting at the end of that route.
Maybe, in his heart, he thinks if he gets it all right — the order, the prayers, the stops — he might just reach the one place he couldn’t that day.

And maybe that’s why, whenever the Metro enters a dark tunnel, he pauses his music, leans forward, and whispers something softly —
as if calling out to someone only he can hear.

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Back to Reality

“Next station, Mysore Road,” the Metro voice said, jolting me from the story in my head. The spell broke, and I found myself suddenly back in the present.
I turned again. He was still writing — same calm, same focus.

Part of me wanted to ask him something. Anything.
But some silences don’t need questions. They just need to exist.

By the time I reached back home from the Satellite Bus Stand, my mother had already reached Mysore.
That’s mothers — always ahead of us, whether in miles, emotions, or love.

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Epilogue

That night, while switching off the light, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

How many people around us might be carrying their own unfinished stories — quietly, invisibly, like shadows in a crowd?

Maybe some journeys don’t end.
Maybe they just keep replaying — until the heart finds peace.

Maybe, the Metro carries more than passengers—it carries unfinished stories still seeking home.
Sometimes, journeys don’t simply end inside the Metro. Sometimes, memories circle the tracks, searching for the arrival they missed—and in the hum of wheels and flicker of tunnel lights, they keep moving onward, always hoping for home.

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This story blends real moments with imagination.
Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. Still, between fact and fiction lies a truth: every traveler might be carrying a story they’re desperate to rewrite—waiting, just like those memories, for a way home.