Motorcycle Diaries 2: Coorg

Wake alone in the hills
With the wind in your face
It feels good to be proud
And be free and be a race

That is part of a clan
And to live on highlands
And the air that you breathe
So pure and so clean

Six years ago, two carbon-based human life-forms stumbled across an album by a not-so-obscure British rock band. The album, widely believed to be quite mediocre, held a special place in the hearts and the minds of these then high-school kids. There was something about the song. Something that one could not explain. Something. Something special. But how would they know that what they felt was in fact longing? Too young, too immature, too easily influenced. Time stands testimony. Come 2001, Rio de Janeiro would rock to the tune of this song and 250,000 bodies would sway. That's a different story altogether. But these words are a tale of Medieval Scotland.

When alone on the hills
With the wind in your hair
With a longing to feel
Just to be free

Not alone with a dream
Just a want to be free
With a need to belong
I am a clansman...

Soon, the words were forgotten. The Shadows cast their veil and hid these dreams of belonging, of highlands under cobwebs of time. But little do the shadows know that, at times, they can be denied purpose. All it takes is a vacuum cleaner, sometimes even a broom in the loving hands of a housekeeper will suffice.

Freedom... [x4]

As the lead singer said - "This song is about freedom. It should be something familiar to you all, but which sometimes is not."

The sheer genius of this epoch-making statement just inundates the mind when least expected. The time was ripe, like a mango waiting to be plucked from a tree which had all to offer and wanted nothing in return. Then, exactly one week back, fate played a strange game.

And I know what I want
When the timing is right
And I'll take what is mine
I am the clansman

The words and the dream sprung alive!

Freedom... [x4]

Wonder and mountain air are synonymous. Very. Our protagonists, the two carbon-based human life-forms set out on a lone bike on even lonelier roads. Tea at 0530 hours coupled, inexorably, with a king between the index and the middle.