Those were the days when if I stood at Punjagutta Cross Roads I knew 9 out of every 10 cars that passed. And getting a lift was simply a matter of waving a hello to any car that looked like it was headed in the right direction.

I was luckily one of those who had a motor cycle. An old Jawa mind you, but a motor cycle all the same. And I had in Madras got the bike modified. It had an Easy Rider handle and sawn off shotgun style silencers painted a matt black. The engine was tuned to high performance and the facia had been fabricated in my friend Ram Prasad’s factory. So it was all black and chrome and roar.

One of the thrills we discovered while riding the bike was that when a heavy vehicle passed us by on the highway, the bike would actually fly sideways for a few inches. The pressure of air was so much and it was fun to let the trucks and buses overtake us, simply so we could fly a little.

One day I was going to the Secunderabad Club and was a wee bit late. It was afternoon, around 3 o’clock and the roads were near deserted. So I let the bike have its say and let loose. As I reached Alladin Building I spotted in the distance a unique shade of blue speeding towards me.

The blue was the Mercedes Benz owned by Nawab Basheer Yar Jung, the father of my friends Aamer and Saad bib Jung and brother in law to Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi aka Tiger of the cricketing captain fame.

Bush Uncle as he was fondly known was (and remains till date) a jolly old chap and I knew he would do something as he passed me. Something cheeky, something naughty, something to tease his ‘Motay’ which is what he used to call me affectionately. So I held fast to my path and sped on.

The Merc too remained resolutely on its path and I could now see the figures of Dimpu Aunty and the kids in the car. Closer and closer he came in a crazy game of Chicken but I did not blink. And then he had passed me by, him on his way to their Palace in Begumpet, me on my road to Secunderabad.

But not before I realised that my bike had been lifted off the road and flown sideways for a few feet, and that I was now riding close to the kerb instead of in the middle of the road.

Damn, but that Merc is heavy I thought. Even heavy trucks don’t manage to give me so much lateral movement when they pass me on highways.

It was only when I reached the Secunderabad Club and I was parking the bike that I noticed the pannier case.

It had a gentle scrape of blue on it. And that shade of blue was unique and very obviously from the Merc.

I hadn’t been blown away  by the wind I realised. I had been nicked and I was lucky to have survived without a scratch.

Shaken, I finished my work at the club and rode back to Bush Uncle’s house. Hello Motay, come, come…have a cup of tea…Bush Uncle greeted me with his customary bonhomie.

Motay my foot, I thought to myself as I proceeded to accuse him of rash driving and for daring to kiss my bike at high speed. Bush Uncle refuted the accusation of course and only when I showed him the blue paint leftovers on my pannier was he convinced. And then instead of being apologetic, he started to laugh. Laugh heartly and contagiously.

Till I was laughing as well. Only later at night when I was about to go to bed did I realise that my brush with the Merc was also my first with death.