Naan Violence-Kumar on the streets, but he really wanted to be called Naan Violence-piloted the other suit. Bullet Vinay, in turn, made damn good use of the suits. The government had granted him-not in so many words, but wink, wink, nudge, nudge-three SRTS suits, second-generation discards from the special forces, as “bodyguards”-because in times of war you protected the people who Got Things Done. He worked for a local politician, doing the stuff that kept the campaign money going. He was one of those people who Got Things Done. And behind it, purring smoothly, the Enfield Bullet.īullet Vinay ran a tidy operation. We watched the white Chrysler ride out of that dusty town. “When you want to make some real money, come see me. “Military man,” he said, shuffling his vast bulk around. Bullet Vinay took off one of his chains slowly, ponderously, and with the air of an emperor giving a lordship to a lesser servant, he put it on the counter. The pale man moved forward, flicked me a smile, trundled the bike out of there. “But if he moves any closer I will, sir.”īullet Vinay laughed. “You look like you want to hit Tiger here.”
Bullet Vinay ambled to a halt in front of the bike. I knew I could take them if I wanted to.Ī crowd was gathering outside. I stood up from behind the bike-I’d been checking the spark plugs. Named for his love of his Royal Enfields, though that I found out much later. “So this is where my son ditched it, eh?” said the man with the gold chains, walking into the shop as if it were his. “Bad customer,” said the owner’s wife, and bustled out of there as fast as she could. Two thugs got out with him-one swarthy and sweating in the heat, one pale and thin and unafflicted. A floral print shirt stretched over an ample belly. The man who came to pick it up arrived in a long white Chrysler, kicking up fine dust. I spent a bit more effort than I usually put into it. An ancient design, built to jump out of planes in the second World War, left to India when the British withdrew now a stolid, reliable workhorse of a bike, one of the few capable of handling everything India could throw at it. One day a man brought in a bike I instantly recognized-a Royal Enfield Bullet. I worked in a two-bit town so nameless that you couldn’t find it on a map even if you wanted to. India is a country of motorcycles, and every village and every junction, those days, had a dusty little shop with a pile of half-rusted bikes outside and three grease-covered men inside screwing something onto and engine. I ditched my gear, worked odd jobs, mostly bicycle repair. I knew I should have gotten back to my parents-but truth be told I couldn’t make myself go back. A failed soldier going home when India needed us the most. A Little Bit of Kali (Part 2 of 2) By Yudhanjaya Wijeratne and R.R.
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