Ode to the Bullet
Our machine is not a machine.
It is more communicative than most humans.
It has a very pattern of calculative sound beats.
Bullet like all other so called bikes
is not built of flesh and blood but of iron, steel and tin -
of noble birth to journey long and win.
Its language is not mediocre.
It is heightened poetry, enjoyable and complacent, sublime and subhuman,
Godlike and divine.
In that poetry of sound,
In that magnificent acoustic experience,
On the beautiful artwork of weight and balance,
the rider finds an escape though in the great life traffic
or on an open freeway
or just casting eyes upon it on a parking slot.
The rider speaks to it not necessary by words,
for who says or have had said "words are the only talking tools!"
The deep hollow sound slices through the air,
heavy blowing air bubbles abstract, intoxicating and beautiful to the ear are they heard.
Its sound fades and when it gets past the other second-rated machines,
it leaves the legacies of tyreprints on the tracks
and euphony in the air.
The rides too is an absurd, uncommon, cracked soul.
He hugs his bike everyday,
he splashes soap water,
He moisturizes every organ of it and finally sun showers his pride.
He gets lost deep down in the aesthetic pleasures.
For him riding is therapeutic and parallel happy universe of movement.
The highways and the green expands pull him above all.
He goes on and on and on through the breeze,
the suns,
the winds,
and the rains.
And when he is asked
"What's your religion, wanderer?"
He says "Bulletism is my religion and garage is my temple."
-Minu Jasdanwala.
(Typed By: Riddhi Doshi)
