Speeding
by Hiten Chojer
We usually go to school to escape our homes. Mostly we skip the school, ignoring its deep red ominous building, and meet at the restaurant one block away from it after parking our two motorbikes on the muddy sidewalk.
On Monday we meet there and order the cheapest snack available – stuffed kulcha. The six of us discuss where to get the drinks and which highway to take afterwards for the drive.
At noon we sit below the tree next to the old river. I watch the rapid river, tall trees, short grass, brown unpaved road, a bottle of beer resting on my left leg. We throw the empty bottles at the river. Onkar puts his head next to mine. I grab my beer to finish it and fling the empty bottle and watch it float before the tide takes it further downstream. On the walk back to the motorbikes, Rudiv tells me that his father is having an affair with a neighbor. Maybe this leverage stops the regular beatings at home, we think. Onkar only puts his hand on Rudiv’s shoulder and says nothing. My own tragedy will stop in a month when the motorbike accident will break my leg in two.
An hour later we are speeding on Sangrur Road highway to go to the nearest McDonald’s. It is 20 kilometers away. Rudiv, Onkar and I share one bike. Rudiv always drives freely when drunk. Scores of trees buzz past me like bees. I see the racing gray road, black highway divider, sea of green beyond the trees and the forever gray sky beyond that. I now understand a song that was stuck in my head for days. My hands tightly wrap around Rudiv while Onkar struggles to hold on to the black leather seat and me. When I see the bike flying over 130, I close my eyes and loosen my grip to let myself fly as well. Look out, says Onkar.
Up ahead we see some cops partially barricading the road. I fear what the cops will do to us. Rudiv doesn’t slow down but accelerates ahead. The cops see the bike speeding towards the barricade. One of them comes towards the rapidly approaching bike, blocking the small space between the barriers. There is hardly any space left to pass and the cop rushes in to receive us with a huge stick. Rudiv swerves to the right, almost kissing the divider and then sways left to race ahead towards the McDonald’s. In the rearview mirror I see the cops quickly give up and slump back in their tiny chairs.
We call our friends on the other bike to get off the highway and take the narrow roads through the villages to avoid the cops. At McDonald’s we eat our burgers like kings. We discuss another route to head back to our homes.
On Tuesday I go to the school classroom to be with some of my other friends and to meet a girl I like. Soon, when I break my leg, I will realize that she and I share the same tragedy in our homes, just as Rudiv does.
On Wednesday I meet her again for the last time that year. In the evening, I get a phone call that Rudiv and Onkar were in a bike crash at the university crossroads. They were speeding when the motorbike slipped and skidded until it hit the road divider. They lost a lot of blood on the road. I close my eyes and see the deep red spreading on the dark gray road and the black metal of the divider.
Rudiv suffered head injuries, and he was in the ICU. Onkar died on the road.
Hiten Chojer (he/him) is an Indian-born writer and air pollution researcher. He writes poetry and prose, often exploring themes of identity, displacement, and mental health. He started publishing his writings in 2023 and his work has appeared in Exist Otherwise, t’ART Press, Raven’s Muse Magazine, The Amazine and in his debut book ‘Gods of Anxiety Be Damned’.