My Last day in India
or
NLP on a motorbike
by Richard Rudman

I’d never seen the Indian ocean so still before, as flat as the ‘proverbial’ mill pond. I feel relaxed and contented swimming in the warm water. I chuckle to myself as I hear Swami Gi voice saying ‘My buttocks are relaxed’. My whole body is relaxed. It’s 8.30 in the sunshine and we’ve just finished our morning yoga on the beach.

“I’m going to head back and rent a motor bike” Tristram said as he turned to swim ashore.
“You’re not bunking off our last day on the NLP course are you?” I asked.
“No, just renting a bike to get around on” he replied

Then my stillness was disturbed as the idea sparked and grew in my stomach. I’d never taken a day off school before. Never ‘thrown a sicky’ at work. I’d always thought that it must be amazing to travel though India on a motor bike. Now here was my chance to try it for a day.

I feel so much more ‘connected’, kinaesthetic, ‘at one’. My engineering analytical side is still a part of me, but now fully integrated with my new found stronger emotional side. Tristram had done a great job yesterday of helping me integrate these two parts.

The motor bike is an ‘Enfield Bullet’. A classic British design adopted and manufactured in India. The brake pedal and gear changer are on the sides we originally choose, opposite to all other motorbikes today. The challenge is to try and remember that the rear brake pedal is on the left.

It’s a single cylinder 350cc with a sound like a purring cat on ‘tick over’ and a roaring lion with the throttle opened. The sound takes me back to my childhood days. I’m back on the farm riding my motorbike across the moor land, fields and droves in Somerset. But I’d never ridden a motor bike on the road before, so this provides a certain degree of extra ‘excitement’ today. Kerela’s roads are a mixture of cars, bikes, dust, noise and the odd goat. Yet in this apparent chaos there are patterns that start to emerge. Horns are frequently used here, but they have much more of a ‘Hi, I am coming though’ meaning. Rather than the meaning in the UK of ‘Get out of my way -you road hog’

First I take the coast road with the Indian Ocean on my right, then take a track on my left to head inland and dip into the beauty of the kerela ‘back waters’.

I eventually join a main road and approach a town. Going over a bridge I see a river heading off and there’s a narrow lane running next to it. ‘Lets explore that one’ a voice tells me. I manage to complete my first ‘U’ turn and avoid the buses, people and autos (known as ‘Tuks tuks’ outside Kerela). The lane gets narrower and the water closer. I image having to explain to the rental company how I lost the bike in the river. I wonder how this scenario would be handled – the numerous forms to be completed. Best I keep to the nearside.

There are three guys standing in the path ahead, I slow down expecting them to move aside, but they don’t. So I pull up six feet in front of them and switch off the engine.

“It’s a dead end, where are you going?” one of them asks.
“No where, just looking” I reply. I feel like I’m browsing in the shop of India.
“You want to go to XYZ?” he asks. I didn’t understand what he said but assuming it must be something worth seeing so I said “Yes”.
“My friend will show you” he said. The friend is on the other side of the river.

I turn the bike round and we meet up at the bridge. His name is Anjit and I ask him for directions, but he looks confused and instead he climbs on the back of the bike placing is hands on my waist.

Now this guy must be ‘brave’. My first day riding a motor bike on the road and he climbs on to ride pillion. I decide not to enlighten him. The brake pedal still refuses to change gear, so at the next ‘T’ junction I stall the engine. I’m sure he must be working it out for himself!

‘India - Expect the unexpected’ - that’s what the guide book tells you. I know from my last travelling experience 19 years ago in the North of India, that this is a truism.

I’d been practising giving feedback all week, but I didn’t expect to have to give some coaching to Anjit while riding a motorbike. Initially when he said it, I wasn’t sure I heard him right. Perhaps he was trying to tell me that he liked the composer ‘Chopin’. But no, by the fifth time he said it, it still sounded like “Show penis”. I repeated ‘No’, dispensing with the customary ‘thank you’ with my answer.

Then came the clincher “penis sucking”, he said. I wasn’t sure whether this was an offer, or a request! But at least it confirmed what he was saying. We are travelling at 25 mph and still partly in the country side. Emotionally I’m feeling bemused, and even giggle to myself at the thought of telling the guys tonight. Then the analytical side in me starts to weigh up the risks. Where is he taking me? Am I going to get gang raped round the next bend? No, he looks harmless. He’s of slight build and I’m at least a foot taller than him. Looking back now. I wonder how did I reach the conclusion that this Indian guy, who wants to suck my penis, is harmless.

Bringing the bike to a halt, I choose my words carefully and select just three.

“No talking penis. No talking penis. No talking penis… OK ” I notice that I was able to deliver this feedback clearly and yet without the animosity that I might have done prior to my NLP experience.

He goes quiet and then says “OK”. I wonder whether to make him get off the bike now, but decide against it. We ride on, Anjit still giving me directions until we arrive at a brand new hotel on the edge of the back waters.

After a ten minute tour by the hotel manager we head back.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You are a good man” Anjit says.

I accept his apology.

“Take me home” Anjit requests

‘Take me home’. The three words that can mean so much when you’re starting a new romantic relationship with someone. But not in this particular case! We pull up outside his house made of bland simple concrete. It’s dry and hot. There’s a small concrete walled enclosure with a few coconut trees for shade and other houses around.

“You come in?” he asks. I smile to myself, as I contemplate my reply. I make yet choice today based more on my feelings than my head, and walk up the three steps onto the veranda.

There I can see inside the room. Bare, dusty, and just a scruffy sofa. But sitting on the sofa is an old lady.

“My mother” he says. My gut instinct was right and I fully relax.

The living room walls are bare concrete except for a fan and two large portraits on one wall. Anjits mother says some words, and I interpret them to be ‘Father’ and ‘husband’. I relax back into the sofa and tell her what a lovely country she has. Anjit comes in with a coconut and asks if I’d like a drink of coconut juice. He goes into the kitchen and I hear chopping noises and he returns holding the coconut in one hand and a full glass in the other. Curiously he doesn’t bring a drink for himself or his mother.

They both smile and watch me as I let the cool sweet liquid slip down my throat. I’m unsure as to why they don’t have a drink themselves. It can’t be their last coconut, there are at least three coconut trees outside. Once I’ve finished my glass, Anjit refills it.

A little time later I’m back on the Enfield. Feeling more confident driving on the road as I start to really open the throttle and let the lion roar. Finding another track, I head East back towards the ocean. This country is amazing, the people so friendly, young and old wave and smile as I pass, many before I wave to them. I reach the end the track with a handful of houses. I park the Enfield under a tree and walk another 50 yards to the beach. It’s about 30 degrees in the midday heat, but there’s a lovely sea shore breeze.

Lunch comprises two bananas and a bottle of water sitting on the rocks. It’s so quiet here, nobody is about, and four large fishing boats lay silently on the sand.

After 20mins of strolling I finally meet a guy and get chatting. His work takes him away from his wife and two children for six months at a time to ‘watch for other boats’ as he put it. He uses binoculars and what sounds like some kind of navigational aid like radar. His children are nearly the same ages as mine. My work takes me away from my family for just three days at a time. I struggle to comprehend what it must be like for six months.

“Come” He says. So I let him lead the way past his house and we get to what looks like a large wooden shed. It reminds me of my parents farm. There’s a huge tarpaulin overhead and inside about twenty guys are sitting around repairing fishing nets. So this is where they all are. Two are lying down and dozing, but immediately sit up to greet me with smiles. The fishing net is huge and wrapped up at one end. My friend explains that it’s 500 metres long, which they lower in the sea in one huge circle.

“How many fish do you catch”. I ask
“Two thousand dollars”. Is the answer. “Sometimes nothing”

The broken English subsides, and I lay down and watch one of the fisherman stitch together a broken net. I feel like I’m just hanging out with the guys. He uses a four inch steel fork that has been wrapped with an orange fishing line. They offer me a coconut, but having already had two glasses, I feel embarrassed in declining their hospitality.

“You want lunch?” one of them asks a little latter. This is an invitation I can’t refuse. A chance to sit and eat with them and really experience what life is like for an hour. I’m mindful that I must eat the food on my plate as I don’t wish inadvertently offend them. But the food in Kerela is typically mildly spiced fish and rice.

Another guy leads the way though the wooded shed. Passing more nets and a little room that has a huge cauldron of cooked rice in it, we step out the back where there’s a large plastic drum. Using a plastic beaker he reaches inside and brings out a cup of water which he pours over my hands as I wash them.

Two steel plates are waiting for me as I step back inside the shed. I sit on a pile of nylon fishing net and pick up one full of rice. Large swollen plane rice. The other dish has three cooked fish on them, looking a bit like sardines four inches in length. I tuck in being careful to only eat using my right hand. Left hand is for using much later - after you’ve eaten! I’m about to take a bite from one of the fish, when one of the other guys joins me and starts eating. Instead of picking up the fish, he carefully picks small lumps of flesh off to reveal a host of bones underneath. The core skill of NLP - good observation and modelling. Thank goodness I hadn’t bitten off a great chunk. A pot of vegetables arrived, looking like a brown sort of mush.

More of the fisherman came in clutching their dishes of rich and fish.

Eating rice with just one hand is a skill. I made an overt attempt to copy the guy opposite and he smiled and tried to teach me how to do it. You make your hand into a scope and then squash the rice and vegetables together to form a lump that you pop into your mouth. There were chuckles from everyone as my food reassembled more of a squashy mess. The cook comes back in waving a spoon for me to use. I politely decline - I can do this. I have all the resources within me.

The cook comes back again, this time with a saucepan and says. “Sauce. Take little. Like?”

He just poured a little on my rice and waited for me to try it. It was orange in colour to match the nets and tasted good. To show my appreciation, I agreed to have some more. How kind of him to respect the fact that my pallet may not suit his sauce.

Fifteen minutes later I wished I’d listen to the cooks sub text more carefully. My lips were on fire. Yet my mouth was fine. They had given me a beaker of water so I sipped on this to give my lips temporary relief. The rest of my meal I decided to open my mouth as wide a possible and get the food in without touching my lips. I realised that getting the food into lumps was not only good manners, but one of extreme importance for the health of your lips.

After another hand wash, I thanked each one of them and said my farewells before firing up the Enfield once again.

As I head back on the coast road I reflect on what I’ve learnt today. The decisions I made were from my head and my heart. Prior to the NLP course, I’d of taken them from just my head. I’d of never bunked off the course today in the first place. I would of dropped off Anjit at the first junction. I would of left the fisherman once the conversation dried up as I would of felt awkward. Missing out on the offer of lunch.

This is how I’m going to live my life going forward. Head and heart working together as one. Connected and experiencing life to the full.

As the sun dips towards the horizon, I open the throttle for another roar from the Enfield and ride home. Lips on fire.