My name is Akhil Kalsh, I am a motorcycle addict.
I am a B. Tech in Electronics and Communication. My day job is working as an SQL Server DBA for a Fortune 500 company. Most of my office time, and the rest of the day, is spent trolling the world of motorcycle blogs and websites, visibly drooling over the latest Ninja or the updated Ducati.
I ride whenever I can, wherever I can. Rain, sun, snow, or hail, whatever the weather may be, I can be found trundling somewhere around Mumbai, looking for some chai and pav. I love riding solo, I don’t understand the mentality of group rides, nor I enjoy them.
I blog here, mostly my experiences, my excitement, and my despair. I don’t make any money from this blog, but have spent quite a lot on domain, space, and stupid Facebook advertising.
What the hell am I doing with my life?
I have no idea why I love bikes, or riding. I have no idea why I love to blog. I have no idea what I will be 5 years from now, or will this blog remain, or will I ride as often as I do now. I have no idea what the meaning of life is, all I care about is the fact that I am happy.
I am happy when I am on the saddle. I am happy when my ass is on fire after riding for 3 hours straight. I am happy stuffing my face with shitty roadside food. I am happy when my helmet is covered with dead bugs from top to bottom.
I am happy taking a piss under some tree next to a highway. I am happy shivering all over from cold, and feeling the little heat from the engine. I am happy with painful wrists, fingers, shoulders and back, after a long ride.
I am happy when people tell me they like my articles. I am happy when my words are useful to anyone. I am happy when my experiences make anyone laugh. I am happy when people leave mean and angry comments on my blog.
Is it enough to be happy?
I don’t know. Half of my friends are married, the other half are enjoying on site work in western countries. Some already have kids, some are still bachelors. I am 25 years old, working in the same company since 3 years, living in the same house since 2. Are they happier than I am? Should I even compare?
I don’t know what it means to be successful. I am not starving to death, not addicted to crack, and not living in Syria or Somalia. I have enough money to live an amazing life. I am in good health. Why do I need to pay some big ass money to some college to do an MBA and then become some managerial schmuck, when I already enjoy what I am doing?
I hate society. It does nothing but pressurize you to become something you may be not. I hate money even more. Every single problem in the world can be traced back to once source: Money. People ask me, how am I able to have such a lifestyle, to spend so much money on petrol and bikes and magazines and riding gear and other “idiotic” stuff. I don’t know how I do it, or where do I get the money from, or how I pay the bills. It may have something to do with the fact that I consider money to be the medium, not the goal.
I don’t think we need any more successful people, there’s more than enough of that already. We need people who do stupid things, for no apparent reason. We need people who do what their heart says, when it says. We need more humans, and less industrial grade machines.
Life is nothing but a long wait to die.
When I am 80 years old, if I am 80 years old, I don’t know if I will be happy with what I did with my life. Maybe I would be a homeless alcoholic begging somewhere in South Africa. Maybe I would be a motorcycle collector. Maybe I would be a vegetable, living on machines.
But as long as I can twist the throttle, I will try my best to do stupid shit that I can laugh about later. I don’t have the least fuck of an idea what I am doing, why I am doing it, and what it means for my future. But it’s OK, don’t worry about it. I am not looking for any hidden meaning in my life, not looking for a purpose. Why did God send me here? Who cares! If you have a destiny, you are living it, if you make your destiny, you are making it.
I don’t expect people to remember me when I am dead, nor a road named after me or a stamp with my face. All I want, is my closest friends to think “He was one crazy motherfucker”.