Honeymoon Horror Stories – I

So I’ve been back in Delhi a whole week, and have been putting off writing about the honeymoon which, btw, was the craziest thing I have ever done. We rode all the way from Delhi to Manali – that’s close to 600 kms if you take the obvious route.  Since we were so high on life, we decided to take the longer route.

And you know what? I want to tell you all about the trip. I really do. But there’s a part of me that believes that if I put it down here, write about it, it’ll be over. And I don’t want it to be over. I want to bask in the glory of being a newlywed as long as I can. I want to think of the crazy bike ride as something that just happened.

But the truth is, it’s been three weeks since I got married. The henna has faded and I’ve taken off the red and white bangles and sindoor and the sarees. One week since we came back from the honeymoon. I’m back to being me and dragging my clumsy lead-like feet to work. And the only thing that will maybe bring the zest back into life is to talk about the trip. So I need to get around to that. Now.

So we started on the 21st at around midnight, and went down (we live on the second floor) to load all our stuff on the bike. I reached first (or was it his plan all along?) and noticed a ‘Just Married’ sign on the bike.

Best. Husband. Ever.

In about 15 minutes, the bike looked like this:

We took off shortly after midnight, and rode for about three hours. We stopped at a dhaba on the roadside for tea. And then there we were, riding into the wind again!

I kept kissing Mister’s right shoulder through my helmet because I couldn’t stop imagining people passing by looking at our “Just Married” board and mentally congratulating us. No, really. There was a point where I thought a guy in a Santro waved at us and showing us a thumbs up. I raised my visor, waved back, and yelled “Thank you very much!” And then Mister told me the guy was giving us the finger for being in his way. Broke my heart, but you get the point, right?

Anyway. We rode on all night. The next time we stopped was at 5:30 in the morning, to refuel at Panchkula. As soon as we got out of the gas station, the bike started sputtering and spewing black smoke, and the engine was hotter than you look in high heels and a tight skirt. 

Fuck. What are we going to do?

Wait.

He meant literally. It was way too early. We had to wait for an hour before he could call his mechanic in Delhi.