You only die twice

THE WEIRD STORY ABOUT THE BIKER THE GOT KILLED ONLY TO BE REBORN

Riding a bike on India’s backcountry highways is a dangerous form of art. Actually, forget it! Riding a motorcycle in India is sheer lunacy, the most dangerous, irresponsible thing I’ve ever done in my life! And I’ve done some crazy s*** on four wheels, on two, with an air tank strap to my back, and on foot – you name it. Nothing, I mean NOTHING matches the stuff you have to cope with while piloting a beat-up 1950s Royale Enfield Bullitt 350cc motorcycle. Just ask Om Singh Rathore. That died as a nobody on this very piece of tarmac between Udaipur and Jodhpur, Rajasthan, in 1991. Now he is a local celebrity complete with a personal shrine, a cult of believers, and is more alive than ever. We stopped by to say hello.

Don’t try this at home

The single-cylinder of my antique Royale Enfield Bullitt crackle and vibrates as it struggles to reach 90Kph. I’m riding on a two-lane highway 62 from Pali to the “Blue City”, Jodhpur. Wearing a helmet, riding jacket, boots, and gloves, I’m a bit of an oddity around these parts. All the locals wear flipflops, white shorts, and an occasional turban. No wonder. Temperatures here have long passed the 30 degrees in the shade mark. By the way, it’s a sunny day here in Northern Rajasthan, and there is no shade in sight. There’s a smell of something cooking. Given it’s India, it couldn’t be the cow resting in the middle of my lane just in front. No. It’s a tourist stew. It’s me. On fire.

What the hell was I thinking? Taking a rented relic on a 1,000 Km tour of Rajasthan state in Northwest India. Our guide Yeti was nearly killed the day before as he took a blind and slippery curve way too wide into an oncoming bus. Sometimes you just need to be lucky. On that specific day, Yeti was. He still sends me New Year greetings on Facebook. Nice chap, probably not riding Royale Enfields anymore.

The rider who went through a tree I came out as god

Om Singh Rathore, on the other hand, wasn’t that lucky. On the night of December 2nd, 1991, he met a tree on the side of the road and died instantly. The local police found his 350cc Bullitt, unscathed in a ditch nearby, and brought it to the station. There, things became a little fuzzy. The next day the bike was reported to have disappeared from the station only to be found back at the site of the crash. The police, once again, took the motorcycle, this time emptying its fuel tank and putting it under lock and chain to prevent its removal. Despite their efforts, the next morning it again disappeared and was found at the accident site.

Legend states that the motorcycle kept returning to the same ditch. It thwarted every attempt by police to keep it at the local police station. The bike always returned to the same spot before dawn. Some of the stories get even wilder with Om Singh himself reportedly appearing out of nowhere to help distressed motorists and travelers.

The Shri Om Banna shrine

In a land with tens of thousands of gods, you don’t need much more than this to canonize a poor, dead motorcyclist, and add him to the list of the immortals. Fast forward 20 years and the place is a pilgrimage, complete with a concrete shrine, burning incest, tons of orange flowers, and countless hawkers. It is said that a person who does not stop to pray at the shrine is in for a dangerous journey. Given the state of riding affairs in India, we were not in the mood of taking any unnecessary risks.

I park my own Bullitt 350 next to the enshrined copy of it and take a look around. It’s a mayhem. Nearby villagers and travelers stop and pray to the bike and its late owner. Some drivers offer small bottles of alcohol, an act you must admire for its sheer irony. Few groups play the drums. Families are more than happy to pose and have their photo taken by a foreign tourist – me. Other devotees are busy applying the “tilak” mark by tying a red thread on the motorbike. I skip the bandana and instead go to a nearby improvised “sidewalk garage” to equip my humble Royale Enfield with a big truck horn. I kid you not. That thing is loud! (and as I’ll soon discover, also very effective).

“Better be noisy than sorry”, I say as I bid goodbye to Om Baba and his immortal bike.