Thunderbird Diaries: When a Tap on the Head Kickstarted My Engine

 Thunderbird Diaries: When a Tap on the Head                         Kickstarted My Engine

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My wife shouted.
“What?”
Yes. She scolded me.
“For what?”
Wait... let me breathe, digest, and then tell you.

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon. I was doing what most husbands are best at—absolutely nothing. Staring at the fan blades rotate. Listening to silence. When suddenly she fired the question:

“Have you stopped writing blogs?”

A strange question. Innocent yet loaded.

I replied, “No, I haven’t… but the number of readers has dropped. I don’t think people are really interested in my stories anymore.”

She looked at me with that look—half concern, half mockery.
And asked: “Why?”

I didn’t have an answer. Maybe people are more hooked on 30-second reels. Swipe up. Swipe down. Watch a dance. A bike do wheelies. Some random cook fry an egg on the bonnet.
In that world…
Who wants to read about my childhood workshop, sunbirds on my balcony, or my failed attempt at convincing my mom to buy a bike?

She sighed. Then came closer, tapped my head gently and said:

“You are not writing for the likes, you’re writing for yourself. When you feel good about it, that’s the story you publish. If it brings you joy, someone out there will feel it too. You hid your writing for years in OneNote. Only now the world’s seeing it. Don’t stop, my dear. Your stories are light. Real. Warm. They make people feel something. That’s rare. Just keep going.”

And that was it.

No reel. No music in the background. No slo-mo zoom.
Just a simple tap on the head that restarted the engine of my thoughts.

🚦The Blog That Wasn't Supposed to Be (But Is)

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Truth is, I was supposed to write a story about my cousin and his two little squirrels. But that story is still tangled somewhere in the back lanes of my brain. It hasn’t found its road yet.

What found its road instead…
Was a memory that popped up right after this conversation with my wife.

A story about a mission.
A suspenseful domestic negotiation.
And the thunder that followed the Pep.

Let’s rewind.

🛠️ When Grease Smelled Like Dreams

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The year was 1996.

A big six-foot man with a thick mustache would ride into our workshop on a roaring Bullet. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak. His bike did the talking.

Back then, I was a skinny school kid. Books in one hand, grease on the other. My post-school ritual was fixed:
Drop bag → Run to workshop → Sit and stare at the bikes.

Yes, our house was behind the workshop.
No, not beside. Literally behind it. The kitchen had smells of sambar and diesel.
That’s how it was.

The workshop was my theatre.
And Royal Enfield Bullets? They were the superstars.

My dad worked on them with a devotion that looked more like worship.
The 90s Bullet was a beast:

• Gear and brake both on the right side (acrobatic coordination needed)

• Diesel engine versions (yes, you read that right)

• A thump that echoed into your bones

He once said,

“This bike doesn’t just move on roads. It moves something inside you.”

Back then, I truly believed only giants with arms like pistons could ride a Bullet. I just stood there… staring… storing the sound in my memory.

🛵 From Roars to Whispers – The Scooty Pep Years

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Let’s fast forward to 2013.

My XCD 125 was chilling back home in Hassan. And I? I was commuting to work on a Scooty Pep.
Yes, pink in spirit. Yes, made for college girls.
And yes, it was my wife’s. I had borrowed it like one borrows sugar—politely, temporarily, and often.

Each bump on the road reminded me that dreams don’t always come with telescopic suspension.
But destiny? It has a strange way of kicking in when the time is right.

⚡The YouTube Teaser That Revved My Heart

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One lazy afternoon, scrolling endlessly, I stumbled upon a teaser:
Royal Enfield Thunderbird 350 – New Launch.

And there it was—on my screen, in full glory:

• Projector headlamps gleaming like wolf eyes

• Vertical LED tail lights standing like time portals

• A rider gliding through valleys, as if the bike was floating, not rolling

They weren’t just marketing a bike.
They were calling me home.

I watched the video five times. Maybe six.
Each time, my fingers inched closer to the “Book Now” button.

But first... the real journey began.

🗳️ Convincing the Home Ministry: A High-Level Operation

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Two people.
Two approvals.
One dream.

• President of the house: My wife

• Prime Minister: My Amma

Me: “It’s not just a bike. It’s a lifestyle.”
Wife: “Is it safer than my Pep?”
Me: “This bike is heavier than your car. Of course it’s safe!”
Amma: “Are you planning to join a gang? Or start milk delivery?”

They weren’t convinced.

So I launched a 3-pronged attack:

1. Promised to buy vegetables without cribbing

2. Shared videos where couples looked happier after buying Royal Enfield

3. Whispered, “Don’t you both deserve this comfort too?”

It took 15 days.
Three arguments.
One silent treatment.
And two missed serials.

But finally, the verdict was out:
Approval Granted.

⏳ Waiting Period – Where Dreams Took Shape

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“Sir, it will take 5 months.”

Five months? For a bike? I could’ve gotten a passport faster.

But those 150 days weren’t just waiting.
They were dream-building workshops.

💑 Dream 1: Ride with My Wife

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We’re on a winding road in Chikmagalur.
Fog hugging the hills.
She holds me tighter every time the wind gets colder.
We stop for tea. Laugh about life.
Reality check: She’s scolding me for not wearing thermal socks and for forgetting to fill air in the tyres.

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🙏 Dream 2: A Temple Ride with Amma

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Early morning breeze. She sits sideways with a pooja thali and jasmine flowers.
We reach the temple.
She tells the priest, “He finally got his Bullet.”
He nods solemnly.
Gods smile.

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🧭 Dream 3: Solo Ride

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Just me, the road, and the rhythm of the engine.
Stopping at unknown places.
Talking to strangers.
Writing lines of poetry in my head.
No traffic. No deadlines. Just peace.

📞 The Call That Turned the Key

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And then… it came.

“Sir, your Thunderbird is ready.”

I stood still for a second.
Then called my wife. My mom. Even my neighbor who once said “Bullet is overrated.”

We all went to the showroom like a baraat.

And there it was:
Thunderbird Black with a hint of ocean blue.
Standing like a king. Gleaming like a dream.

🛣️ The First Ride

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I sat.
Took a breath.
Pressed the starter.

The thump hit my chest like an old friend’s hug.
No music in the background. Just the wind. And me.

I didn’t ride towards a destination.
I rode towards a feeling.

People turned.
Some smiled.
One kid even ran after me saying, “Nice bike uncle!”

Uncle?
Okay. Fine. Let’s not spoil the moment.

🏁 From Tap to Thump

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From a lazy Sunday to a roaring bike…
From a tap on the head to a thunder in my heart…
From scribbling in OneNote to writing this blog...

This story isn’t about a bike.
It’s about remembering what moves us.

And if you're still reading this—thank you.
Not because I want likes or shares. But because now you know...

That sometimes, the journey back to yourself… starts with a kickstart.

Infographic of Thunderbird bike

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Some real picture of Thunderbird bike 

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Thunderbird and Road

🪔 The Metro Stranger: A Route That Never Ends

 🪔 The Metro Stranger: A Route That Never                                            Ends

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This is a story that began on a Deepavali weekend.

It was one of those long-awaited weekends. Deepavali round the corner, the whole city was on wheels — people dragging suitcases, auto horns creating their own orchestra, and the roads glittering with brake lights more than diyas. You can guess — the grand migration from Bangalore had begun.

You know that scene, when everyone’s rushing home and the city feels both alive and empty at once.

You might ask, “What’s new about that?”
Wait. I never start a story without a reason. But even so, what follows isn’t only about Deepavali or travelling—it’s about moments that catch you off-guard, where your mood tilts quietly with the day.

The Plan

It was Saturday. My younger one had already decided the day would be dramatic. My mother was heading back to Mysore after her short stay with us, and my little one — all of three years — refused to let her go.
Tears, tantrums, emotional blackmail — the full package.

So we had a plan: once she fell asleep after lunch, we’d quietly make our move.
And that’s how our journey began — me, my mother, and a familiar chain of Bangalore companions: Auto → Metro → Auto → Satellite Bus Stand.

The Metro Ride

The Metro felt crowded. People carried sweets, new clothes, and a rush to get home.

We managed to find seats, and just as the train halted at ITPL, a man entered. Mid-thirties, plain shirt, a small black backpack. He sat beside me — quiet, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the window.

A few minutes later, he unzipped his bag and started taking out notebooks — not one, not two, but several.
Of course, curiosity kicked in.

On the first page, I saw something that made me pause — neat handwriting, bold titles:

• Route Detail: ITPL to KSR — every stop, distance, time.
• Description: how each station looked. Notes like “KR Puram – red footbridge, two trees near gate.”
• Pilgrimage List: Horanadu. Subramanya. Sringeri. Dharmasthala. Written in order, like a plan.

He flipped through another notebook — same handwriting, same routes. The same details again and again.

When the train moved, he paused his earphones, scribbled something, then looked out of the window, almost like cross-checking his notes with the world outside.

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As I watched his routine, questions formed in my mind.

Something about him felt… unusual. Not threatening—it unsettled me, quietly, for reasons I couldn’t explain. My curiosity turned into a deeper discomfort, even as I tried to appear casual.
It wasn’t what he wrote, but how he did it. Repeatedly. Methodically.
Like someone trying to remember what can’t be forgotten.

Every page carried the same stations.
The same list of temples.
The same routes written over and over, like a prayer that refused to fade.

And that’s when the thought struck me —
What if he isn’t planning a trip ahead? What if he’s rewriting one from the past?

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The Story Within

Let’s imagine.

Years ago, maybe this man — let’s call him Arun — was on a pilgrimage with his parents. A small family trip, the kind where mothers pack idlis wrapped in banana leaves and fathers complain about the winding roads but never stop humming old songs.

It must have been nice — rain in the hills, bells ringing, a peaceful drive.

But fate never knocks. It just turns up—often at a bend—and when it does, everything inside you goes still before you even know what changed.

Maybe it was Charmadi Ghats. Misty morning.
A sharp turn.
A truck from the opposite side.

A flash. A scream.
And silence.

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When Arun woke up, all he saw were hospital walls. The smell of medicine lingered.
They told him he survived.
No one told him what part of him didn’t.

His parents were gone.
But in his mind, they never left.

The accident had erased the ending but trapped him in the beginning — that endless road trip to the temples.

Now, every familiar sound pulls him back — the chime of a temple bell, the hum of a metro, even the metallic echo of train doors closing.

Doctors call it traumatic retrograde memory disorder.
I’d call it something simpler — a loop that won’t let you go home.

Since then, every weekend, he takes the same route — ITPL to Satellite Bus Stand.
He notes down the stops.
Lists the temples.
Writes, erases, rewrites — as if finishing the map might bring the journey back.

Maybe he still believes his parents are waiting at the end of that route.
Maybe, in his heart, he thinks if he gets it all right — the order, the prayers, the stops — he might just reach the one place he couldn’t that day.

And maybe that’s why, whenever the Metro enters a dark tunnel, he pauses his music, leans forward, and whispers something softly —
as if calling out to someone only he can hear.

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Back to Reality

“Next station, Mysore Road,” the Metro voice said, jolting me from the story in my head. The spell broke, and I found myself suddenly back in the present.
I turned again. He was still writing — same calm, same focus.

Part of me wanted to ask him something. Anything.
But some silences don’t need questions. They just need to exist.

By the time I reached back home from the Satellite Bus Stand, my mother had already reached Mysore.
That’s mothers — always ahead of us, whether in miles, emotions, or love.

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Epilogue

That night, while switching off the light, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

How many people around us might be carrying their own unfinished stories — quietly, invisibly, like shadows in a crowd?

Maybe some journeys don’t end.
Maybe they just keep replaying — until the heart finds peace.

Maybe, the Metro carries more than passengers—it carries unfinished stories still seeking home.
Sometimes, journeys don’t simply end inside the Metro. Sometimes, memories circle the tracks, searching for the arrival they missed—and in the hum of wheels and flicker of tunnel lights, they keep moving onward, always hoping for home.

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This story blends real moments with imagination.
Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. Still, between fact and fiction lies a truth: every traveler might be carrying a story they’re desperate to rewrite—waiting, just like those memories, for a way home.

SPARK!!! – A Car, A Memory, A Lifetime

                  SPARK!!! – A Car, A Memory, A Lifetime

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Poetic lines

Car that SPARKed a light in me,

A cutie, a beauty, a memory to be.

Not just wheels, but joy from the start,

SPARK, you’ll always live in my heart.

While driving to Mysore, just after crossing NICE road and before the toll gate, something happened. A little car slipped past me. Small, compact, and painted in sky blue. For a second, I froze. My eyes followed it, and before I knew it, my mind wasn’t on the Mysore road anymore—it had traveled back in time.

Life is strange that way. Sometimes, a sound, a smell, or just a sight makes you walk straight into memory lane. That car in front of me wasn’t just another hatchback—it was my story staring back at me.

Sky blue—the exact color of my first car. Can you guess which one? Back in 2010–11, this little fellow was giving tough competition to Maruti’s Alto 800. Yes, I am talking about the Chevrolet Spark. A tiny, compact, cheeky little car that meant the world to me.

When the Spark was Born

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Anyone who has owned their first car or first bike knows this—your first vehicle is not just metal. It becomes your companion, your diary, your proud achievement. It sees you from zero to what you are. That’s what Spark was to me.

But before we get to Spark itself, there’s a small story that leads up to it.

Every weekend, I would travel to Hassan. That was my routine: finish the week’s work, hop on a bus, and come home to my father, mother, and brother. One such weekend, my parents had just returned from a function in Palakkad. As we all sat down, casually chatting, my mother suddenly said: “Let’s buy a car.”

At first, I smiled—because I had the exact same thought brewing in my mind. My parents, though, were practical. “Let’s buy a second-hand one first, learn driving, then later buy a new one.” But youth is never practical. Youth is about touching the untouchable. I told myself—why not learn in a new car itself? Why settle?

That was how the spark of an idea turned into Spark, the car.

The Hunt for a Car

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The next day, we walked into a Maruti showroom. WagonR caught my attention—within our budget, spacious, looked decent. But something inside me wasn’t convinced. I thought, let me not decide in a hurry.

Back in Bangalore, during office breaks, I kept searching online. That’s when I came across the Chevrolet Beat. Sleek, stylish, futuristic—it felt like love at first sight. But another car also caught my eye: Chevrolet Spark. Small, compact, but with its own charm.

I told myself—wait till Friday. Friday is bus day. Bangalore to Hassan. Discuss with family. Then decide.

The Showroom Visit

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Saturday morning, we went to the GM Chevrolet outlet in Hassan. Not even a full-fledged showroom, just a small place for bookings and deliveries. The real one was in Mysore.

We looked at the Beat—it was stunning. But the price, and the long waiting period, put it out of reach. The showroom manager pointed us toward Spark. At first glance, it looked modest. But the more we saw it, the more it appealed. Compared to the Alto, it looked better built, more premium.

We returned home and discussed. This time, I made sure not to repeat my old mistake—like how I had once booked an XCD bike without my father’s approval. This time, the decision was collective. And to my joy, my father liked it too.

That evening, we booked Spark with a token advance of ₹10,000.

The Waiting and the Call

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One month went by. Every week, I’d call the sales manager. “Sir, your color will take another 15 days,” he kept saying. Meanwhile, the bank loan got approved. Everything was lined up.

Then came that one call while I was in office: “Sir, your car is ready for delivery.”

For many, this is routine. But for a lower middle-class family like ours, it was a milestone. An achievement we could point at and say—we did it.

Why It Mattered So Much

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To understand why Spark meant so much, let me take you back a little further. To 2006.

We were doing fine then. Small family, small workshop, two children in college. Life was running smoothly until one morning when my father, who had traveled overnight from Tirunelveli, said he felt discomfort. “Just gastric,” he insisted. But I could sense it was not normal.

By afternoon, his condition worsened. We rushed him to Bhaskar Clinic. The doctor immediately referred him to a hospital. Within ten minutes, he was in ICU.

I still remember watching him being wheeled away. A strong man, who ran a workshop with his bare hands, now on a wheelchair. The doctor came out and said: “Heart attack.”

(The doctor came and said he had a heart attack. That was his first—it collapsed the balance of our life in an instant. Yet, by God’s grace, he recovered and remained with us until December 2011.)

Those words broke us. He was the sole earner. We were young, still studying. My mother’s world collapsed in that one moment. Tears came, but more than that, responsibility came. Overnight, I had to step up. The carefree student became a son carrying family weight. With God’s grace, I got a job and slowly things stabilized. But one thought always remained: If not for that heart attack, my father would have fulfilled many of his dreams, including buying a car.

So when we bought Spark in 2010–11, it wasn’t just my car. It was my father’s dream, my mother’s joy, our family’s milestone.

The Arrival

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Since I was in Bangalore, it was my father, mother, brother, and uncle who went to take the delivery. When I returned that Friday night, there it was—our Spark—parked in front of our home, covered with a cloth.

At 10 PM, I stood at the gate, staring at it. That feeling—seeing something that belonged to us, something earned—was indescribable. Next morning, I took the cover off. The sky-blue Spark shone in the sunlight. Our car. Our achievement.

Learning to Drive

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We had a car, but none of us knew driving. Luckily, my uncles (my father’s brothers) were professional drivers. They said, “In three sittings, you’ll be ready.”

Our first class was in a housing layout nearby. Flat roads, a few turns, some slopes—perfect for beginners. Sitting in the driver’s seat felt surreal. The first gear, the clutch release—it took a few hiccups before the car moved. That baby movement was like a child’s first step.

By the third class, we were road-ready. Reverse was still tricky, but slowly, confidence grew.

The Scratch Story

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But overconfidence is a dangerous thing.

One Sunday, after class, my uncle parked the car in front of our house. It was a tricky spot—mango tree on one side, a steep uphill on the other. After lunch, when everyone was inside, I quietly sat in the driver’s seat. “Let me try reversing,” I thought.

Third day of learning. Alone. Overconfidence.

You can guess what happened.

I misjudged the side and brushed the strong iron gate. Scratches ran from the front door to the back. Our one-week-old Spark was scarred.

When my parents saw it, their faces dropped. My father called my uncle, who reassured us. We took it to the showroom. The mechanic rubbed and cleaned it. The scratches were faintly visible but not glaring. That day I learned a lesson for life: confidence is good, but overconfidence leaves scars.

Journeys with Spark

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From then, Spark became our companion. We drove to Palakkad, Guruvayoor, and other temples. In ghats, my uncle drove while we observed. Those trips, especially with my father, are etched in memory. One of them turned out to be our last long journey together before he passed away. That makes Spark even more special—it holds those final moments.

Later, Spark stood by me in another unforgettable journey. When my first child was born in Mangalore, I received a call from my father-in-law. Usually, Bangalore to Mangalore takes 6 hours. That day, Spark became my F1 car. Less than 5 hours. Non-stop. Heart pounding, eyes fixed. That tiny hatch carried me to meet my world—my wife and my newborn daughter

The Legacy

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Even today, Spark is with me. Many may see it as just a discontinued Chevrolet model. But to me, Spark is alive. It holds my family’s story, my father’s memory, my milestones.

It taught me patience. It taught me responsibility. It reminded me not to be overconfident. It carried my dreams, my struggles, my joy.

People often say cars are machines. But some machines become family. Spark was ours.

So, whenever I see a Spark on the road—especially a blue one—I don’t just see a car. I see my own story driving past.

Journeys with Spark

Infographic: Chevrolet Spark – Specs & Story (India)

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Infographic Concept: SPARK – The Journey of a Tiny Giant

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From then, Spark became our companion. We drove to Palakkad, 

Disclaimer: The details in this infographic are based on publicly available information and personal experiences. Specifications may vary by model and year.

Spark with grassland back drop