A Long Ride, Two Coffees, and the Price of Wisdom : A Scrape, a Smile, and a UPI Payment

About four or five years ago, a close friend of mine was on his way to his daughter’s house near HSR Layout when an auto decided to greet him a little too personally. It scraped him from the side, sent him tumbling, and decorated his hands and legs with a generous collection of bruises. No fractures, thankfully, and he was back on his feet in about three weeks.

Around the same time, another friend met with his own adventure, this one involving a scooter, a perpendicular road, and a motorist who seemed to be training for the MotoGP. My friend was on the main road, taking a right at a circle, when a two-wheeler zoomed in from a side road and rammed him from behind. The fall left him with a fracture, a month and a half in plaster, and time in a wheelchair.

After suitable analysis, of the very scientific kind our group is famous for, we concluded that neither of my friends was at fault. The others involved probably claimed innocence with equal confidence. Such is the Indian traffic ecosystem.

These two, along with two more friends and me, form a weekly meet-up group, five men with wisdom that grows in proportion to the number of incidents we discuss. With the fresh glow of these two accidents, the third member of our group issued a decree: “Stop riding two-wheelers. At our age, one fall and you’re on crutches.” He delivered this with the conviction of a cardiologist warning about pakodas.

His words had such effect on me that I soon sold my faithful two-wheeler. Four decades of safe riding, and not one accident, yet there I was, retiring from biking thanks to other people’s “colliding ability.” From then on, my life was cars, Olas, and the metro.

Now, one of my closest friends had bought a brand-new Bullet about six months earlier: ₹3.5 lakhs for the bike, and another ₹50,000 for his armour, gear, and gadgets. He was four years short of officially earning the senior citizen discount. Enthusiastic, he had joined a bikers club and was steadily doing long-distance rides, all while trying to tempt me into joining him.

And he tried often. He pitched destinations with the enthusiasm of a tour operator. Finally, I decided to give my resolve a half-day holiday. He planned a ride to Kanva Sunset Point. I reached his home at 2:15 p.m. as instructed, ready to leave by 2:30 for the 60+ km ride.

He pulled out the majestic, heavy bike from the parking slot, only to find that it refused to move. A puncture. He had checked fuel, air, and everything the previous evening at the petrol bunk, so this was a rude shock. Disappointment was written all over his face.

Not one to give up, he brought out one of his fancy gadgets. After turning the rear wheel looking for a nail and finding none, he used his battery-powered air pump to fill some air so we could push the bike to the nearest puncture shop.

The mechanic listened to the story, nodded wisely, and asked if the tyre had been refilled recently. My friend admitted that the petrol bunk was his last stop. The mechanic, like an astrologer predicting an eclipse, declared that the bunk fellows must have disturbed the valve. He checked, replaced it, and sent us off, charging ₹20 for diagnosis, treatment, and blessings.

My friend instantly regained his sparkle. It was now 3:30 p.m., an hour late, but Google Maps optimistically promised that we might still catch the sunset.

We set off. I was doing a long-distance bike ride after more than three decades. We crawled through city traffic, reached Kengeri after 45 minutes, and soon Bidadi. We stopped for coffee, which became a 30-minute halt because my friend’s protective gear required a detailed protocol, key before gloves, mobile in slot before zipping the jacket, etc. We also clicked a photo, mainly to tease another friend who owned the same bike but never used it for anything longer than a grocery run.

We reached Kanva just as the sun disappeared by a whisker. But the place was still magical, the still water, the changing sky, the colours dancing on the lake. My friend made a video call to his ever-busy software-engineer wife, trying to convince her that she was missing the paradise he was showing her on a weekday.

Once it got dark and chilly, we began our return. Near Ramanagara, I spotted a Café Coffee Day and said we deserved a treat. My friend muttered something about it being expensive. I brushed it aside and went in while he began the painful unwrapping of his riding gear.

The coffee shop looked fancy enough to host an international summit. I asked for two coffees. In a moment of caution born from foreign travel trauma, I added, “With milk.” The lady assured me coffee came with milk.

I pulled out my credit card. She said, “Only cash.” I enquired if UPI was fine?  She said, “UPI not working.” I asked the price. She said, “₹680.”

My world paused.

I had only ₹400. I walked back to my friend, now halfway out of his armour, and asked him to guess the price of two coffees. He said, “Maybe ₹700?” I realised just how outdated I had become.

Though he had money, we decided we didn’t want to support inflation at that scale. We moved on.

Within five minutes, we found a small tea stall run by a husband-and-wife duo, with four plastic chairs under the open sky. We ordered two chais. The lady asked us to pick any snacks from sealed packets. We chose peanuts and chips and sat down like royalty.

The tea was wonderful. The weather was chill, so we wanted another cup each, but decided against it, sunset lessons had taught us not to lose time unnecessarily.

When we asked for the amount, the lady said, “₹40.”

I reminded her we had taken the peanuts and chips too. She simply replied, “Tea ₹10 each, chips ₹10, peanuts ₹10.”

We paid by UPI, smiled and rode back.

As we cruised through the night, the chill air brushing past us, I realised that India presents itself in two flavours, ₹340 coffee in a cash-only ‘premium’ café, and honest chai for ₹10 in a humble roadside stall that accepts UPI without a fuss. And somewhere between those two worlds, on a bike I had once sworn off, I rediscovered not just the joy of riding but also the beautiful contradictions that make our everyday journeys unforgettable.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.