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After a final splutter and cough, our Enfield came to a standstill. We looked at each other in disbelief. A hundred miles up the road, it had begun spurting oil and now, it was dead. Michael threw his helmet to the ground startling the curious roadside goats. He was done. India was too much and it was time to leave. Monsoon season was several months away, yet as we began to push the motorcycle towards the nearest town the sky opened up in a display of torrential rain. Sweat from our faces met dirt from our jackets and fell to the warm road in fat droplets. A few weeks ago, we might’ve laughed at our misfortune. We persisted to push the bike through the rain until hurried hands from a ramshackle tin shack invited us to shelter. The five of us huddled as calls were made and more men began arriving. Two on this bike, three on that bike. Four on the other. A rickshaw driver authoritatively made his way through the crowd of Telanganese men all trying their luck at jump-starting the motorcycle. He grabbed our packs, threw them in the back of the rickshaw and gestured at us to follow suit as he climbed onto the Enfield. Three weeks in India had taught me that cliches are cliches for good reason. The biggest piece of advice I’d been given. “Go with the flow” It hadn’t made sense yet. Until... We exchanged glances, shrugged and raced to the back seats as the rickshaw was kicked to gear. A man in the front seat gave the Enfield gleeful pushes as we puttered the final three miles into Adilabad. Rounding up our convoy was no less than twenty men spread across six motorcycles. In varying stages of saturation, we burst into a guesthouse where a room was arranged. Michael set off on the mission of finding a mechanic at sunset on a Sunday night as I peered at the scurrying lizards on the ceiling and processed leaving. Through the sickness, frustration and exhaustion of the last month, I couldn’t shake the feeling that India had a lot more in store for me and that I wasn’t ready. After a couple of hours, Michael returned with a sweating bag of chicken biryani, “I was taken on a tour of the town and met this man who owns the office next door. I’ve just been drinking with them. They’re really nice. They brought you this food and want you to meet them. They said, your wife is like a sister to us” Balu was several Kingfisher’s deep when we met and wasted no time in introducing me to the dozen Adilibadi men gathered around the dirt-floored badminton court behind his office. Michael and Balu were old friends by now and as it turned out, both lovers of Royal Enfields. Balu had been riding them for years and upon hearing of our motorcycle issues, had taken it upon himself to help us fix the bike, now in the hands of the local mechanic. We shared stories, laughing into the balmy Telangana night. It had taken time, but I was beginning to understand what was meant by going with the flow. When we found ourselves on a short-notice-spontaneous five-hour road trip to Hyderabad with Balu, his best friend, his assistant and the town mechanic to buy motorcycle parts, I went with it. I’d asked later, why he’d been so kind to us and he insisted, “Guest is like God. When you have something to give, you give it. When you have it, I know you’ll give it back” With a handful of homemade roti and chutney, Michael placed the matching keychain Balu had gifted him in the bike, igniting the engine in a triumphant hum and we rode. Balu held our gaze as long as he could until the bike was out of sight. Some ways down the road, we ate the roti and chutney with our hands, squatting beside the bike with the great expanse of India ahead of us. We couldn’t believe our luck.