Golden Biker

by Alexander Von Eisenhart Rothe

  The ‘Indira-Gandhi’ multi-purpose hall in the heart of Delhi was a modern sport- and concert hall designed by a French architect to hold about 10.000 visitors. Several times the city’s delegates had asked the architect to increase its capacity since in India even relative unpopular events would draw a crowd twice that much. But since the architect, true Frenchman that he was, spoke no other language besides French, this information never reached his ears.

  Two hours before the opening concert of the music festival was about to start, already over 20.000 people were jostling and jam packing inside the hall. The air had the consistency of syrup and was filled with the babble of voices of an uncontrollable crowd, all yearning feverishly towards the main event of the evening, namely the performance of the ‘Nataraja Dream Boys’.

  At a certain time in the Nineties, in the far away West, boy groups had been all the rage, especially amongst the female audiences, thus a resourceful Indian producer decided, to copy this successful concept for the domestic market. He had some melodies composed, simple and catchy enough for the Indian taste. He had invited young good looking men for a casting, the four best of them got some dance and singing lessons and were given show biz names (he called them ‘Julian’, ‘George’, ‘Dick’ and ‘Timmy’ after a children TV show he had once seen on English TV) and as the ‘Nataraja Dream Boys’ they managed to record their first single (‘From Lunghi with Love’) which was greeted with sweeping commercial success.

  Virtually over night the band had become famous all over the country, the single climbed to the top of the charts where it remained for almost half a year. They were proclaimed as a ‘one-hit wonder’ but their second single (‘I would like to marry you, but my astrologer says no, maybe we can stay friends’) was, despite the slightly awkward title equally successful, it stayed in the charts for almost over a year. At this point they all could very well have called it quits and would have been living on easy street for the rest of their lives with their earned millions. However they wanted more and more. And thus it happened like it always does when you cannot get enough. Every year they landed another mega-hit earning more money then the foreign debt of India altogether (Only ‘Timmy’ decided to leave the group after someone had secretly informed him that his name was actually the name of the dog in the children program, an insult, he could not let slide. He went on to have solo career, becoming famous all over India under his new stage name ‘Snoopy’.)

  Needless to say the remaining ‘Nataraja Dream Boys’ were by now not as crisp as they once had been—they all had a touch too much pomade in their hair, sporting moustaches and an obvious tendency towards obesity—all of which had no impact on their popularity whatsoever. On the contrary, this look gave them mass appeal, since the paunch-moustache-combination together with oily hair happened to reflect exactly the male beauty ideal of the typical Indian female.

  “Yikes!” Arthur groaned as he saw the blown-up poster of the band, “Are you seriously considering going to a concert with these grease balls?”

  Bear pushed through the crowd in the general direction of the hall. “Why not, they are really famous here. Not to be missed!”

  Arthur gave another very sceptical glance at the poster. It showed all three ‘Natarajas’ in their 20 feet glory, sitting on heavy motorbikes, surrounded by several gorgeous females in wet saris, languishing at them. All of the girls put together probably weighed as much as one single ‘Dream Boy’ without any breakfast under is belly. Arthur shook his head. “In Germany, I would never ever go to a concert with such goof balls, you know! This is the lowest form of commercial bullshit!”

  “But you’re not in Germany! And if you don’t like it, you can stay outside!” Bear answered, finally reaching the entrance, which was already tightly packed with people.

  “Oh no, since you are the India expert, I’ll let you convince me of the contrary” Arthur joked.

  They reached one of the sales booths. “For two!” Bear said to the man behind the glass. The cashier tore off two tickets from his roll and pushed them through the opening.

  “That’ll be...” He stopped in mid-sentence staring at Bear and Arthur.

  “Something’s wrong?” Bear wanted to know.

  “No...” the cashier answered vaguely, “I just have to go check, just a second, ok?”

  He got up and walked over to a telephone. The only thing Bear and Arthur could see through the window was, that he was nervously whispering into the telephone giving both of them odd looks from time to time. Finally he put the receiver down and came back.

  “Here please, the tickets are free of charge. Enjoy yourselves!”

  Arthur snatched them up. “For free? Cool!”

  “Just a minute, why does everybody else has to pay but us?” he asked sceptically.

  The man behind the glass became more agitated. “Because... because... today we have tourist week. I am sorry, cashier is closed now!” He pulled at a string and a venetian blind came rattling down in front of their noses.

  Arthur smiled happily. “Imagine our luck! Today they’re having ‘tourist week’. And we got the last two tickets!”

  Bear seemed to be less happy. “Don’t you think this is a bit weird? Have you noticed, the looks he gave us? And why are all the other booths still open?”

  Arthur started to move towards the entrance. “Come on, you’re just being paranoid. Let’s go inside!”

  “A minute ago, you didn’t even want to go in and now you can’t wait?”

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, now that it’s for free!”

  Shaki snapped his mobile shut and happily put it away. “They’re inside the concert hall! They’ve been spotted by a cashier!”

  Number One nodded approvingly. “You have to hand it to this Bábaa fellow, he is pretty organised!”

  “But” Number Two cut in, “how can we snub them inside the hall? There are over 30.000 witnesses!”

  Shaki grinned at him maliciously. “Believe me, with so many people there, it is attracting less attention as if you would kill somebody on a lonely country road. Nobody will notice anything in there. You edge yourself close to them—two fast stabs with the knife and you disappear again into the crowd. It’ll be so packed they won’t even be able to fall down. And if they’re make a noise—so what? So is everybody else! Believe me this is the ideal place!”

  Rajnesh, who was sitting at the wheel, driving in the direction of the concert hall had been quiet for a while. The two black eyes he had been given had seriously damaged his self-respect. He had really wanted to get it right but had failed miserably. Maybe he was not cut out for this gangster business after all. Getting a beating from his uncle had been the worst. Ever since they had left Báaba’s villa he had thought about how he could regain his lost trust.

  “Uncle?” he finally asked encouragingly, “would you let me finish them?” Shaki snorted contemptuously. “They’d probably steal your knife! Watch where you’re going, park the car somewhere and then we’ll see what you can do. I’ll find some kind of idiot’s job for you!”

  Rajnesh ignored Number One’s and Number Two’s broad grins and looked for a parking spot. But that proved to be difficult, since a band of honking tuc-tucs was blocking the already clogged streets around the concert hall. Oddly enough most drivers were dressed in yellow black, like the colours of their vehicles, all the while chanting out loud, off key mantras. Rajnesh could not quite make out what they were singing about but apparently it had something to do with a holy man called ‘Sunil’.

  Shaki shook his head uncomprehendingly. “Today of all days, they have to have their procession! What’s this all about anyway?”

  “It’s all about a holy man ‘Sunil’, looks like he’s some sort of god to the tuc-tuc drivers.” Number One said indifferently.

  “Aha.” Shaki answered with an uncomprehending head wigg
le. With over a million Gods in the Hindu pantheon, one could be forgiven not being acquainted with every single one of them. He tapped Rajnesh on the shoulder. “Okay. Let us off right here and try to park the car somewhere!”

  Rajnesh nodded in silence. Carefully manoeuvring the jeep to the side of the street letting the others get off.

  “Okay!” Shaki said, after he had gotten out, “After you have parked the car, look for the motorbikes and destroy them. We don`t want to take any chances!”

  “That’s exactly what I had been thinking in Pushkar!” Rajnesh answered eagerly, just to let his uncle know, he could have good ideas as well. But his uncle only looked at him despairingly. “And of course you have botched it up, haven’t you!” Shaki turned around on his heels. Number Two grinned, giving Rajnesh a wink. “Don’t let them take the jeep away from you, again, little squirt!”

  All three of them disappeared into the crowd, moving towards the concert hall. “Asshole, asshole, asshole!” Rajnesh quietly cursed to himself as he put the car into first gear and went looking for a parking space.

  Gerd had no reason to complain. His vendetta against his wife had worked out splendidly. And there were more surprises coming her way... Not only had he cancelled all accounts and credit cards, sold the house, the furniture and the car, oh no! Gerd had gone all the way and had in her name, put quite a few orders online. Soon she would be the proud owner of twenty-two pallets of mustard, a fold away garden pavilion, six barrels of crude oil, a sculpture of African art measuring 15 feet and a 130 gallon aquarium already filled.

  Furthermore he had found a pizza delivery service on the Internet where he had placed an order for 500 ‘Quattro Stagione’ to be delivered one after the other every two hours. As delivery address for all of that: His dear old ex-pal Reiner Josten. And that was only the beginning. He wished his wife and her paramour to have a grand time with all that junk and he pictured Beate’s face, when she was faced with the bill. He could not help but smile. Yes, he could be proud of himself.

  Gerd looked at his watch. Another hour before the concert would begin. Arthur and Bear had gone to see the show, but he had not been interested. They had agreed to meet at the motorbikes after the show, so there was enough time to wander around the city a bit, maybe find a pub and celebrate his triumph.

  He squeezed himself through the parked cars on hopelessly blocked streets around the concert hall, when suddenly from a dark van a side door opened and a man—obviously an Arab or something—got out and approached him with a smile.

  Meanwhile on the inner floor of the concert hall there were three times as many people in the audience as the French architect had planned for. Whereas for most Indians it was not unusual to be wedged in between a heaving mass of people, for the two Europeans this was becoming a nightmare.

  “I can’t breathe!” Arthur groaned, being pushed into the mountains of flesh belonging to an enormously fat person standing next to him.

  Bear too was feeling quite uncomfortable by now, having been stuck in a position where he was no longer sure if his feet still had any contact with the ground or if he was just hanging suspended in the air.

  “What a stupid idea to come here in the first place!” Arthur called at him.

  “A moment ago you were all for it!” Bear shouted back.

  “Yes but before that, I said, I wasn’t!”

  “Could it be, that you just don’t know what you want?”

  Arthur violently shoved the fat person away from him, which apart from a few angry looks had no effect at all. “I don’t even want to think about what kind of orgy this petri dish full of viruses is having right now! How long before it starts?”

  Bear tried to lift his arm, but gave up immediately. “Sorry can’t look at my watch. About one hour, I guess!”

  “One hour?” Arthur groaned. “I’m not going to make it. Did I tell you that I get sick when I am in a confined space and amongst masses of people?”

  Bear gave out a sigh. “Oh man, then India should be just the right place for you!”

  Arthur started to desperately wiggle from side to side. “I want out, I have to get out... now!”

  With their last remaining strength they dug their way towards the exit. This was of course much harder then getting in, since they had to move against the incessant stream of new arrivals.

  Arthur’s face had already become chalk white. “Do you know which way? I cannot see the exit because of all these people!”

  Bear, unnerved steered through the masses like an icebreaker. Suddenly he froze in his tracks.

  “Quick!” he hissed at Arthur. “Turn around and go back!”

  “Are you crazy? No way—I want to get out of here!”

  “Then take a look at who’s coming right at us!”

  Arthur stood on his toes. At this precise moment Shaki, Number One and Number Two had entered the hall and they had seen them too.

  Arthur gasped in surprise. “Just discovered my love for Indian pop music!” He made an about turn and dove back into the melee.

  Shaki and his men were on the chase. Their victims had been trapped.

  Rajnesh’s search for a parking place as well as for the motorbikes of Arthur, Bear and Gerd turned out to be surprisingly easy. Right next to the concert hall a huge meadow, once a public park, now a muddy field had been turned into a parking ground for the visitors. It was here that Rajnesh found everything he needed. He parked the car, took the key—he was not going to make the same mistake twice—and marched over to the parked motorbikes. There they were, all three of them. This time he would finish the job he had started in Pushkar. He swung the big car jack he had taken with him from the jeep and let it crash onto the first bike.

  But apart from a very obvious dent, there was no further damage. So he decided to have a more systematic go at it. He pulled out a pocketknife and slit the tires. The air went out with a hiss. Rajnesh proudly looked at his achievement. Next he turned his attention to the carburettors. With the car jack he hit at them clanking and banging away.

  “What are you doing there?” A harsh voice made him stop. He turned around and saw a stout policeman running towards him.

  Rajnesh’s mind raced. “I... I am working for Bábaa Singh!” he blurted out eventually.

  Immediately the policeman’s back stiffened. “Well, ok then—continue! Tell me if you need anything!” He tipped his cap and off he went.

  Rajnesh shook his head. Say what you like, but this Bábaa was impressive. He lifted the car jack again to have another go at the carburettors. But again he was stopped.

  “Rajnesh!” a familiar voice shouted behind him, “I am very, very disappointed in you!”

  Ashok, chief of the gypsies, gave him pitiful look, a look he thought to be more efficient then an angry one. From the looks of the rest of the gypsies one could tell, that they too were very unhappy about Rajnesh’s destructive streak.

  Rajnesh shamefully hid the car jack behind his back. “Oh, hello Ashok, what are you guys doing here?”

  Ashok approached him. “Why always motorcycles, Rajnesh? Perhaps you wished you had one as a child, and your parents would not give you one? Or have been hurt by one? The motorcycle is only a symbol for something that is causing you pain, therefore you think you have to take it out on the motorbike. But that is only compensation, a valve, do you understand?”

  “But I...” Rajnesh stuttered perplexed, “I have to...”

  Ashok spread out his arms. “Of course you have to... It is a subconscious urge, I understand.

  You may cry now. This is good!”

  Rajnesh shook his head. “But I don’t need to cry now!”

  “Let it all out. Don’t hold on. Listen to me: I want you to put the car jack away and hit the motorbike with your hand!”

  “Yes but...” Rajnesh wanted to object, but Ashok
interrupted him with a gesture of his hands.

  “Of course, I know it’s wrong, but we have to eliminate this urge once and for all. Hit the motorbike and pretend it is your parents!”

  Embarrassed, Rajnesh looked at the car jack in his hand.

  “But... I like my parents!”

  Ashok nudged him in front of the bike. “Who was it then that made you suffer so much, eh?

  Your uncle? You have told me about your uncle!”

  “Well, yes...” Rajnesh mumbled, but Ashok smiled at him reassuringly. “Ok then, your uncle.

  Now, hit it hard and think of your uncle. Free yourself from your aggressions!”

  Undecidedly Rajnesh let his hand slump down on the motorbike. Ashok shook his head.

  “Come on, you can do better then that. Let’s go! It’s your uncle, who is constantly breathing down your neck. Hit him hard!”

  The second hit had already more power to it.

  “Watch out!” Ashok reminded him, “we don’t want to break anything, do we? Hit the saddle!” Rajnesh closed his eyes, saw his uncle’s face in front of him, thought about his black eye and hit down hard for the third time. He actually felt better. Much better actually!

  “Take this, uncle!!” he cried out slamming the car jack onto the gas tank with full force.

  “Not with the car jack!” said Ashok aghast, “We don’t want to break anything!”

  But it was too late Rajnesh was not to be stopped. Like a berserk he jumped around the bike yelling: “Take that! And that! You cannot treat me like that!!” eventually, under incessant blows the motorcycle was turned into a piece of junk. Frightened, the other gypsies took a step back, while Ashok tried in vain to calm down the raging Rajnesh. When the motorcycle was no longer recognisable as such, he started to attack the other two bikes still remaining, all the time screaming like a lunatic. “And that’s for you, Number One! Aaaaargh!!!” he screamed hysterically kicking the bike with such a vengeance that the motor block tore off from its bolting. Ashok tried in vain, to restrain the maniac but Rajnesh was beside himself.