A quiet classmate once told me that automobiles treat their passengers
much like a television treats its viewers.
And for this reason
motorcycles are superior.
Years have passed since then and
I have often wondered, but
in the past month I discovered that she was correct.
Motorcycle rides are a sensory journey.
Rather than staring through a shield of glass at my surroundings,
the scenery interacts with me.
Vanished is the barrier between passengers and the outside world.
The rider becomes an actor in the performance
instead of an audience member.
On the streets of Madurai,
my trips have come to life
just as my classmate foretold.
The stench of fuel exhaust
overwhelms the nose
while aromas of sugar and jasmine
divert my attention.
Honks
for
every
occasion
reverberating constantly
remind me to stay conscious of my temper.
The colors of shops,
saris, lungis,
limes, bananas, and coconuts,
come within reach.
All so real
I can almost taste
the sweets and spices.
But before I can stop to try,
the landscape touches me as
a layer of dust settles on my face.
A loose pebble strikes my cheek.
The sharp turn tightens my grip.
And at my destination I realize
I have not merely watched my journey,
but experienced it.
