This morning, I received a message that caught me completely off guard.
It was Guru Purnima, a day I usually observe more out of cultural habit than belief, being the atheist and rationalist I am. And over the years, I’ve grown used to messages from people who say they’ve learnt something from me. I’m 53. I talk a lot. It’s not entirely surprising.
But this one came from Shohrat Shankar, my club captain, my riding mentor, and the man who, in more ways than one, kept me from killing myself.
That’s not a metaphor. That’s mechanics and probability.
I’ve been riding since my teens. My first motorcycle was a ‘stolen’ 1969 Czech-made Jawa (BattleCat I), taken without permission from my father. Then came a red Bajaj Pulsar 180 (BattleCat II), bought with my own money. Then a long hiatus. From 2002 to 2022.
At 50, after a second divorce and a painful bankruptcy, I bought a Royal Enfield Interceptor 650, Battle Cat III, and found my way back to freedom. I bought the gear, the mods, the leather jacket, the attitude, and joined a biking club.
And then, on my very first ride with Bikers’ Creed India (BCI), I fell. Thrice. Hurting my knees, elbows, and ego.
It gave me pause. I realised how dangerous I had become. I was aggressive, reckless… and deluded. Riding like a 30-year-old in a 50-year-old body, with a machine far more powerful than I knew how to handle. I was legit going to kill myself at that rate.
Therefore, it is no exaggeration to say: if it weren’t for BCI and Shohrat, I wouldn’t be here to write this.
In fact, Shohrat didn’t just correct my riding. He corrected me.
He is a soft-spoken, compact man with a giant presence in the saddle. With over 250,000 kilometres under his belt, he seems to carry a mental GPS of the entire country, including tea stalls, trail entries, elevation shifts, and locals you should wave at.
But more than knowledge, it is his generosity that defines him. He helps everyone, regardless of age, bike, or experience. No superiority, no judgement, no nonsense. Just pure, distilled road wisdom, freely given.
Thanks to him, I now ride with awareness. I corner better, handle trails without panic (no, scratch that, but as near close to without panic as an old man with atrophied muscles astride 47 horses can), and ride like a human. But more importantly, I approach fear with humility. Indeed, I still have much to learn, but, and this is the crucial part, I now know how to learn it, and that has made all the difference.
Outside the saddle, Shohrat is equally formidable.
He is a leadership coach who actually leads. He has built some of the most disciplined riding clubs in India. He sets standards, enforces them calmly, and accepts the brickbats that come with being effective.
He has had detractors, as all strong leaders do. But I have never once (and let me repeat that, just to drive it home: Never. Once) heard him bad-mouth anyone, not even those who have been unkind to him. He just rides on. That is not just maturity. That is class.
And then there is the man himself.
A fellow fauji brat like me, Shohrat, was raised in a world where being a “gentleman” was not about affectation but ethic. He is a steadfast husband to Payal Shankar, herself an accomplished Instagram influencer, and a devoted father to their son, Aden.
Before I conclude, let me digress a bit: Back in the 1970s and 80s, while my kid brother and I were growing up in our home, with an Air Force officer for a father, we were taught to look for OLQs, or Officer-Like Qualities, in ourselves and in others. It became a lens through which we evaluated the world.
Shohrat embodies them fully. Courage, integrity, composure, clarity, discipline, kindness, loyalty. The whole set.
So yes, this morning my Guru wished me.
But this is my Guru Purnima note to Shohrat.
Here’s my salute to my captain. For the road. For the lessons. And for my life.
