wutheringheights

“Don’t ever touch the silencer… It’s hot,” said the hippie uncle soon  after parking his brand new Royal Enfield  Bullet  on the street where  we played cricket. “It will burn your hands. Be careful.” With two  garlands, one tied around the headlight and the other on the rear  lamp, the  Bullet  had a dozen sandal-paste marks on its body. The potbellied uncle was never in a mood to leave the  Bullet , foreseeing  the possible harm I would have given to his new machine. So he checked  the vehicle a couple of times to ensure that it stood firmly on the  middle-stand. After walking a bit, he would return and stay close to  the  Bullet , adjusting the garland around its headlight. He wanted to  know whether I would approach his machine in his absence. The action  went on for almost half-an-hour, and finally the uncle gave up,  smiling at me. I could still feel the heat evaporating from the silencer as I stood  close by it. But what attracted me to it was a wide-angle image of my  fac