The Accident

I’ve always believed that some people ride bikes, and some become them. I’m the latter. I’m not the kind of guy who hops on a weekend ride in overpriced gear just to post a few Instagram reels. I’m the one eating asphalt for breakfast, pushing limits, burning through cities like they were pit stops in a long, stubborn dream.

Over the past year, I toured more than 10,000 kilometers. Not some curated, pre-planned kind of ride—this was raw. Fog-choked mornings in the hills, late-night downpours on slippery highways, the relentless sun baking my jacket as I sliced through empty stretches. I’ve seen oceans crash against the land and mist curl around peaks like smoke from an old memory. I’ve taken wrong turns into forests and ended up in silence so deep, it felt holy.

One time, I planned a trek just to see a sunrise. Slept through the alarm. Most people would’ve let it go. Not me. I jumped on my bike, flicked the traction control off, and just went straight up the damn hill—rocks, mud, gravity all against me. Didn’t matter. My bike and I, we don’t wait for paths. We make our own.

I’ve screamed into my helmet during road rages, cried silently after heartbreaks, and laughed like a maniac as the wind hit me at 120 kmph. My bike has heard the most honest versions of me—moments no one else ever will.

My last big ride was to Kanyakumari—India’s final point. The end of NH44. I stood at the edge of that highway with the sea touching three sides of the land. It felt symbolic. The road literally ran out. I just stood there, sweaty, sore, sunburnt… but whole. That moment? It felt like closure to something I didn’t even know needed ending.

Then came the accident.

I was back in Hyderabad after wrapping things up in Bangalore. A childhood friend was getting married—at 24. I called it a child marriage, jokingly. I mean, who the hell gets married at 24? But she was happy, and I guess that’s all that matters.

It was meant to be a break—a short, soft detour. I thought I’d use the time to visit old college friends. So, I got my bike washed at the neighborhood shop. Tires still wet. A small, stupid detail I didn’t think about.

The first warning came quickly. I slipped a little on the main road, but saved it with some quick opposite steering. Felt like a god for a second. Then came the next turn—just a simple left. I leaned in. Just a bit too much. The bike skidded. My control vanished. And the next moment, I was flying.

I hit the ground like a sack of regret. Slid across the road. Could feel the scrape of gravel on my skin, my helmet thudding. All those thousands of kilometers—and I crash five minutes from home. What a damn joke.

Two ligaments torn. Significant knee damage. Surgery was inevitable, but only once the swelling went down and my body was stable enough to be cut open.

So began the long, boring purgatory. I vacated my Bangalore apartment. Shut that door for good. Bought a PlayStation—figured I’d distract myself. Bed rest became my routine. Day blurred into night. There were long naps, slow physio sessions, awkward limps around the society just to feel something other than uselessness. It was okay. Not terrible. But I was waiting. Always waiting.

Then came the surgery.

They numbed my spine. Local anesthesia. Which meant I was awake. Not just awake—aware. I heard every goddamn thing. The drills, the saws, the hammer hitting bone. The surgeons chatting like it was just another Wednesday while my leg was being rebuilt from the inside out.

Three procedures. Two legs. They sliced into my good leg to take a hamstring ligament, then used it to fix the broken one. Screws. Plates. Metal fused into me like I was being turned into a cyborg against my will.

Post-op? Pure hell.

Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t bear a simple touch. Couldn’t think straight. My body burned and froze at the same time. The IV ran chemicals into my veins like poison disguised as healing. I woke up every 10 minutes in cold sweats, scared of nothing in particular but terrified all the same.

Sometimes, I just wished they’d saw the legs off. At least then the pain would make sense.

Eventually, I came home. Walking with a walker was a new level of misery. The leg brace felt like a medieval punishment device. Every time I moved, I could feel my skin stretch and pull against the surgical staples. It wasn’t just pain—it was betrayal by my own body.

But I kept going.

Physio became religion. Every small progress was a win. I pushed. I limped. I learned. I got stronger. And now… I’m in better shape. Recovery, they call it.

But I keep asking—what is recovery?

Is it just walking again? Is it smiling and pretending you didn’t watch your life stall out like a broken engine?

Because sure, I’m healing physically. But mentally? I feel like I’m just floating through space. Stuck in this weird purgatory between existing and disappearing. I haven’t done anything "productive" in weeks. Haven’t felt like a rider, a worker, a friend—hell, even a person, sometimes. Just this blurry outline of someone who used to move fast and feel everything all at once.

Now I just stare at the ceiling fan and wonder—did the world move on without me? Or did I move too far away to ever return?

I was a man who moved so fast. And now, the world caught up, pulled me back, and put me to rest.