In the crimson-lit hush of a late 1930s Himalayan dawn, young Sam Bolo, aka Sambo, roared through the uncharted jungle flanks of Shimla aboard his trusty metallic steed, Silverblaze, a 1936 Model JF 500 cc Royal Enfield Bullet with a gleaming 4-valve bronze head, his engine thrumming like a wild heartbeat. He traced paths unknown, the bike’s weight bowing to gravity on muddy slopes, splashing through mountain streams and bull-hooking past fallen branches under towering deodars. Every gear shift echoed his own audacious determination: to discover a hidden haven among the hills. And in that rugged, emerald tangle of rock and mist, he glimpsed the perfect spot, destined, years later, to cradle his wooden cottage in quiet solitude and house generations of stories yet to come.
Sambo was born in 1900, a century-forged soul; by the 1930s he was the British Raj’s fearless scout, part explorer, part cartographer, part poet of trails unwalked. His beloved motorcycle, Silverblaze, wasn’t just a machine. He was his confidant and comrade. The 1936 Model JF Bullet, a rare, upright-engine marvel of its day, with that striking 4-valve bronze cylinder head, was more than steel and pistons. He sang with every revolution, a deep metallic rumble that resonated in Sam’s bones.
Bolo called him Silverblaze because, to him, he burned bright on Britain’s iron-greys of colonial India, bright as a myth come alive, strong as spirit incarnate. With a single cylinder, 500 cc heart, he was modest in specs, but no ordinary bike. Sambo fine-tuned him with the precision of a sculptor: larger valves, improved carburetion, a hardened cam chain, a beefed-up clutch, and a dual-rate suspension setup that soaked hill-bumps and rocky ruts like a happy heart soaking love. Over years, his hands coaxed Silverblaze into the finest hill-climber the Subcontinent had ever known.
Sambo’s love for Royal Enfield wasn’t born merely from mechanical admiration – it was devotion to a lineage. The brand’s story, beginning in 1901 in Redditch, England, stirred something deep within him. He would often recount how the Enfield Cycle Company once produced firearms and bicycles, eventually crafting their first motorcycle, and how the legendary Bullet model became the longest continuously manufactured motorcycle in the world. When production shifted to Madras in the 1950s and Royal Enfield became an inseparable part of independent India’s riding culture, Sambo felt it like a personal triumph. To him, Silverblaze wasn’t simply a machine – he was a moving chapter of history, a breathing heirloom of iron, oil and legacy.
When the British left, the empire crumbled, its maps redrawn, its flags lowered. But Sam Bolo stayed. He’d fallen in love with this land, its misted mornings, rush-wet forests, and hum of alt-streets buzzing with chai and chatter. He built his cottage, a small wooden sanctuary where fog curled like smoke and time paused to listen.
Shimla was a dream stitched in pine and cloud. Its architecture bore colonial echoes, Victorian timbered houses, gingerbread details, sloping roofs made for snow and monsoon. Markets thrummed with shawls, hand-woven and fragrant with yak-wool warmth. Teahouses glowed with chai-steam, laughter, old Raj stories. And above it all, the hills – emerald, silent, where time moved slower than city clocks.
Every corner held a living story: maids with brass samovars, schoolgirls in tartan frocks, elderly shop-keepers with shop windows lit like fireplaces at dusk. The forest-fringes were alive: chirp of pika, wind-shake of pine needles, river whispers in the valley below. This place was both cradle and cathedral to Sambo’s solitude and memory.
Just beyond the bustle of town and its colonial façades lay a shimmering high-altitude lake, embraced on all sides by steep cedar-covered slopes. In early mornings, its still waters mirrored the grey-green ridges so perfectly that sky and earth seemed woven together. During summer months, locals and travellers would walk along the narrow stone embankment, stopping under willow trees to feed breadcrumbs to lazy ducks. In winter, a thin film of ice crept over the surface, and children pressed their palms to it, spellbound by the silvery frost dancing underneath. The lake was Shimla’s quiet heart – a place where time slowed, stories drifted softly on water and mountains gathered like ancient guardians.
In a quaint corner, at the edge of this pristine lake, Sambo opened a modest motorcycle garage. Mechanics in his blood, he turned bolts as deftly as he turned metaphors. His few customers were the older motorcyclists with their old machines, who were mocked by the next generation, vibrant youths on roaring modern bikes, built for speed, gadgets, fuel injection, and flashy fairings. They would scoff at Silverblaze’s old engine, his single-cylinder thump, his slow but steady chug.
“Why ride that dinosaur” one would tease? Sambo would only smile, grease-smudged hands rising to wipe his milky moustache. “Silverblaze isn’t slow. He knows patience. He tastes the climb.” And they’d laugh, until they saw him haul tourists up winding passes in rain and fog, where gleaming bikes slid and sputtered.
In 1990, the monsoon came in bursts of heavenly fury. Sambo, now ninety, hair as white as snowfall, watched the clouds rain-dance through his window. Silverblaze rested in the lean-to, his saddlebags packed with oiled tools and spare spark plugs, always ready.
Despite having reached the rarefied age of ninety, Sambo’s health remained remarkable, the kind that made even younger men shake their heads in disbelief. He attributed it to a disciplined lifestyle nurtured over decades: a simple diet of freshly milled millet rotis, garden-picked vegetables, wild honey and spring water drawn directly from the hillside. Every morning, he performed a gentle but precise routine of stretches and breathing exercises by the verandah, eyes closed, limbs moving in slow harmony with the cool wind. After sunrise, he would often sit in stillness for half an hour, meditating upon the murmuring of pines and the distant chiming of temple bells. Living in pristine mountain air, far from the noise and fumes of the plains, his body became as resilient as the hills themselves.
One afternoon, thunder cracked. A landslide rumbled through adjacent slopes, gravely injuring and immobilising two members of the ropeway crew stationed in the control room high above the hill. Trees fell like matchsticks; earth gave no quarter. The ropeway’s machinery was jammed, trolley suspended mid-air with seven people stranded, dangling between rescue and oblivion.
The sleepy little town rose in panic. Approaches were blocked, detours collapsed, debris jammed roads. Helicopters were grounded by low clouds. The ropeway operatives below stomped foreheads and chewed rain-wet beedis. No one could reach the control room. Except perhaps Sam Bolo.
He mounted Silverblaze: iron saddlebags glinting, tools jangling, heart pounding. The old Bullet growled to life, his piston singing a familiar vow: I ride where angels dare not tread. Sambo set off into the mud, the storm, the near-pitch. At ninety, the old motorcyclist’s bones ached, but his spirit roared.
He plunged into the broken trails, a maze of wet roots, fallen branches, slick rocks. Silverblaze climbed. Clung. He slipped; Sambo cajoled. Sambo dismounted and pushed, then remounted and nudged the throttle. Chains spun, tires churned clay, steam rose off the bronze head. He muscled the iron beast forward, upward, trembling, drenched, but resolved.
Down in the valley, people held their breath. In the markets, women clasped purses, elders crossed themselves. In town, chatter turned to prayers. Could the old man do it?
He did. Silverblaze and Sambo crested the final ridge. Trees parted. And there, the battered control room, ropeway dead, trolley swaying like a pendulum of dread, stood a hundred feet downwards before him. He lifted his tools and his heart pounded in rhythm with Silverblaze still idling faithful.
Inside, the electric brake had jammed solid. The wiring was torn. Gears sheered. All required attention, and best hopes. Sambo knelt in rain-softened mud inside that wooden room. He laboured, his fingers stiff but resolute, tending wire splice and oil bath, rigging relay and shimming gear. Sparks sputtered; wires hissed. The trolley shuddered, life swaying by a thread.
And then, clack, whirl, groan. The ropeway’s engine sputtered to song. Wheels spun. Cable hummed. The trolley resumed its descent, inch by trembling inch, then steadied as gravity drew it home.
When it touched down, the seven survivors, screaming, crying, trembling, were safe. They embraced, knees giving out, tears igniting. The crowd surged. Word spread: the ninety-year-old, his century-worn bike in monsoon torrent, had conquered the impossible.
In the days after, Silverblaze glowed with an inner light. Townsfolk called him mythical, Sambo mythical. The youths who once mocked now stared with awe. One brought his modern bike to the garage and stuttered with wonder, “Sir… you saved lives. On that… on that old thing.”
Sambo just smiled. He polished his bronze head, the 4-valve throat gleaming. “He wasn’t old,” Bolo murmured. “He was faithful.” Then, in his musical voice, added: “A machine is only as noble as the hands that ride it.”
Shimla’s hills whispered his story. Tourists clutched trinkets; journalists tweaked headlines. Children pointed: “That’s Silverblaze.” The ropeway operator knelt before him. He refused credit; offered his hand. And then, with a mischievous twinkle, Sambo said, “Just a man… and a machine.”
As years trickled onward, Silverblaze rested under a deep-leather tarp, Sambo remained in his wooden cottage, sipping chai as curdled light spilled through hand-carved window-panels. He heard the wind in the deodars like an old friend singing. Little else changed, except that people now whispered stories of the “Old English Hillclimber,” the motorcycle, the man, that refused to yield to age or terrain.
Each evening, Sambo gazed at Silverblaze, parked in front of his cottage like a silent steed guarding memories. The bike held history in his bronze head, in the standing welds, in the iron-taste of grease that had become home. He spoke of passion, of power crafted with love, of hill-climbing amid heartbreak and storm.
And as the monsoon mists curled round his eaves and Shimla sank into soft twilight, Sambo closed his eyes, a quiet smile easing into his spirit. In that moment, heart full of roads he’d ridden, lives he’d saved, love he’d sparked, he felt truly home.
Copyright © 2025 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
Dear Ned, thank you for always promoting my stories in your website. So glad that you liked this latest tale of mine.
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This piece is an absolute triumph of storytelling — rich, cinematic, and alive with texture.
Your writing doesn’t just describe Sam Bolo’s world; it immerses the reader in it. From the metallic thrum of Silverblaze’s engine to the mist-curled solitude of Shimla’s hills, every image feels hand-carved and lovingly polished.
The historical details — the Royal Enfield lineage, the shifting tides of the British Raj, the evolution of Shimla — are woven seamlessly into the narrative, giving it both authenticity and depth
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Dear Verma’ji, first of all thank you for being the first person to comment on my story. Your words of appreciation is so deep and thoughtful. It really makes my day reading your comment, and feeling a sense of triumph on being able to ride a good short story. Thank you so much for your constant support and encouragement.
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🙏
Aum Shanti
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Thank you for liking my story.
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Thank you so much, Trishikh, for the remarkable story, which is, in part, a tribute to the history of motorcycle creation and also an ode to healthy living, as it made its follower, an old man, a resilient savior of people trapped by a landslide. As usual, your storytelling is vibrant and full of color, bringing the story to life. I am encouraged to sit and meditate about the beautiful, faraway land, India, wishing to visit it one day…
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, as always I look forward to your comment, and your observation on this story gives me great joy.
I myself have been a motorcyclist and realised a few days back that I had not yet written a story on motorcycling. So this came out. And am really happy the way it turned out.
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Wonderful tale!
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Thank you Ned, always a pleasure to be able to write a good little story that is loved by someone many.
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Okay, Trishikh, that story was gold. Sam Bolo and Silverblaze rode straight into my heart—this isn’t just a tale about a bike, it’s an anthem to grit, nostalgia, and the magic we find in the quiet corners of the world. I could practically feel the mist of Shimla on my skin and hear that engine’s deep, throaty hum. Seriously, you don’t just write—you make your words come alive. I was questioning if this was real or fictional until the bottom, you really are a great human author. Stay healthy because you are a dying breed!
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Your words of appreciation bring tears to my eyes. Yes, I too am very satisfied with the way the story turned out. Being an adventure motorcyclist myself, it was high time that I wrote a story on the subject. So happy that the sights and sounds in the story transported you to Shimla. Wishing you great health and happiness too.
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Thanks man! You are one of my favorites. Be well and know, in my home, your work is present!
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Nothing can be more rewarding for a writer.
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You do a very good job and I truly did read and enjoy. Please don’t doubt that, I want my girls to admire true authors.
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I know you really like my stories and writing styles. It is my aim to promote short stories – reading them, writing them, being inspired from them. I want the coming generations to not not forget about this beautiful art.
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There is nothing that can write like a human author, you are not replaceable. Be well friend, your work is welcome and treasure in our home. My girls love the way you describe things, especially the 5 year old!
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I thank God for bestowing me with such awesome admireres of my stories. Lots of love and blessings to your girls.
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Oh what a truely wonderful story..
You write so well..
Thank you for a tale much enjoyed ❤️
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My pleasure in being able to write this. Thank you for always appreciating my stories.
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Great read, as akways! Sambo and Silverblaze prove you don’t need all the latest gizmos — just a steady hand, a loyal engine, and the sort of determination that could make even the Himalayas think twice.
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Very well said, old school riding is just something else. There were those days when we could repair our own bikes on the road by ourselves, whenever and wherever they broke.
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Thank you so much James for sharing my story in your blog. Now so many more people will be able to read it.
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Fantastic read, as always! Sambo and Silverblaze show that you don’t need the flashiest tech — just a steady grip, a faithful machine, and the kind of grit that could make even the Himalayas step aside.
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Oh, that’s so true. Nothing can compete with true grit with a trustee old machine. Thank you for your beautiful comment. So happy that you liked the story.
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Wonderfull story 💓
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Thank you so much for liking this story.
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What a sweet story. I’d not heard of that motorcycle brand before. This post came alive to me with all your descriptions.
Hope you are having a great summer.
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Ya, summers are going on in India right now, usually from March to June. Though July August is rainy season it is pretty hot. Unlike Europe America summers in India are very hot and humid, people like winters better over here.
The Royal Enfield is an amazing motorcycle, originating in England, and still continues production in India. A machine with a true legacy.
I once had a Royal Enfield 500cc motorcycle, which I had named Silverblaze, it was with me for many years. The story is a tribute to that motorcycle of mine.
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Nice. I was wondering if this was an historic version of someone or personal.
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The character was pure fiction Katelon.
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I have my third Bullet now which I rode for 8 hours in rain last month, brought it from a far away place where I had taken it. 500 cc was, is the best one but I couldn’t afford to buy one.
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I gave up my Bullet a few years back. It was a 500cc Machismo. I had named him “Silverblaze” he was with me for 15 years.
Right now I also cannot afford another Bullet, but am hopeful, that will perhaps buy another someday.
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You will. As I said I sold earlier two. First father sold with my signature to get money. Second to pay for daughter’s Engineering & this one she gave me. Now, sheer mental courage to retain, else, it’s a challenge to start each time. It’s 2012 kick start 350 cc standard. I hate self start
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Oh yes, the standard 350 is a lovely machine. My one was the first Bullet to have a self-start, unfortunately the self started broke within a month and could never properly work again, within a year, I tore the self starter the additional clogs and kick-started my bike always. I could start it with my hands. Though the modern self starters are perhaps good, but then the entire Bullet has changed so much and become so modern. So if I buy another Bullet, it will be a kick start 500cc old school vintage.
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Wonderful description.
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Thank you so much. It always such a pleasure to receive your appreciation.
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Choosing a motorcycle out of all technological inventions, what a stunt! You are the archaeologist of storytelling; observing masterfully, layering, interweaving and combining many parallel strands of life’s events.
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Writing about motorcycling was actually long overdue, as I have been an adventure motorcyclist myself during my younger days. I owned a 500cc Royal Enfield Bullet myself, though not the one I described in the story, but a similar metallic beast, whio I used to lovingly call “Silverblaze”.
Thank you for deeply feeling and understanding my stories. Your comments give me much encouragement to keep on writing these stories.
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It doesn’t get any better than this. Delightful.
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Dear Jacqui, thank you so much for liking. Nothing gives me greater joy than when someone appreciates one of my stories.
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Stupendous penmanship Trishikh! Such vivid and live imagery, i skidded, slipped and flew with Silverblaze. And shed a tear for the spirit of Sambo. Such a treat to read your stories. Thank you.
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Dear Dahlia, comments like yours makes writing these stories worthwhile. So glad that you could emotionally connect to the story. Thank you so much for always appreciating.
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The execution from the backstory, the body of the tale, the anticipatory crescendo, and the triumph, had me leaning into every next sentence. Truly enjoyed it thank you.!
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Thank you so much friend for loving my story. Nothing gives me great satisfaction than when someone smiles reading my story.
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Thank you so much for promoting my story in your blog. No so many more people will be able to read the story.
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Sambo was such a great hero and role model. A superb story with an important lesson! And a homage to your Silverblaze.
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Thank you. Yes, finally I could write a story to pay a little homage to my old friend Silverblaze. He is currently with a friend of mine who is a motorcycle collector. So he is in good hands.
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I would never have thought of the many advantages, such as patience, could have an old machine such as Silverblace, Trishikh. It reminds me of an old wise person! Many thanks for this most beautiful story:)
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Dear Martina, so glad that my story brought back a memory of yours. So happy that you enjoyed the story.
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Dear Trishikh
It’s beyond imagination to see such novel ideas expressed in your posts. I am always impressed.
Thanks a lot for liking my post, ‘Pygmalion’ 🙏 😊
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Dear Raj, it’s my pleasure to have been able to write this story. So glad that you liked it. I appreciate and admire your posts too. It’s my pleasure to do so.
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Your story beautifully captures both nostalgia and adventure! I loved the vivid imagery of Shimla’s hills and his trusty Silverblaze. The blend of humor, warmth, and bravery in the face of challenges makes it memorable. Thank you for sharing this heartfelt tale—reading it felt like riding alongside a true legend… I’d like to ride with him!
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Dear Dalo, reading your comment at the start of the day brings me great joy. Appreciation such as this makes writing these stories so worthwhile.
So happy that you could recognise the nostalgia and the adventure in the story, appreciate the vivid imagery, and felt the passion of riding.
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This is an extraordinary piece of storytelling—rich, layered, and alive with texture. 🌄✨ The way you’ve intertwined history, place, machine, and spirit feels almost mythic. Sam Bolo isn’t just a character; he’s a living embodiment of resilience, devotion, and timeless courage. His relationship with Silverblaze reads like an epic companionship—mechanics, poetry, and loyalty bound into steel and heartbeat.
The descriptions of Shimla are breathtaking, painted with such sensory detail that one can almost smell the pines, hear the tea-stalls buzzing, and feel the mist curling through valleys. The narrative rhythm shifts beautifully—from roaring adventure to tender solitude, from colonial echoes to post-independence belonging.
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Dear Verma’ji, I cannot express in words the joy your comment brings me. Your analysis of my story is so deeply thought and sincerely heart-felt.
I have always treasured your appreciation and look for more of it.
My humble prayer to God is to keep on blessing me with the skill to churn many more of these stories. This was my 77th short story. I have also finished writing my next one. Will be releasing it this Friday. My dream is to write a minimum of a thousand stories in my lifetime. However, one thing I know is that no matter how many I write, it would still be my gift to the next generations.
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Dear Trishikh
It’s a spell of your words.
Thanks a lot for liking my post, ‘Proust’ 🙏 😊
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Dear Raj, treasure your appreciation. It is my pleasure to like your posts.
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Commended
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Thank you so much.
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A beautifully crafted tale, alive with soul, scent, and sound. Masterful storytelling.
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Thank you Daisy, reading your comment the first thing in the morning, really makes my day. So happy that you liked the sights, sounds, and smell of the story. Nothing can be more rewarding for a writer.
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Have a great day, Trishikh!
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A great day to you too Daisy.
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Seriously, one of a kind ! Beautifully scripted narrative which brings Shimla into your living room ! Not to mention the thundering of the legendary motorcycle. Thank you for the treat!
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Dear Vinod, it is I who must thank you for your beautiful words of appreciation. So glad that you liked this story of mine, especially the depiction of Shimla and the legendary Silverblaze.
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A well maintained, thus, faithful machine!
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Absolutely. Maintenance is the key to the success of any machine. In the olden days when machines were more mechanical the operators could repair it themselves, in that way man was way more connected to the machine. Today the motorcycles are more electronic, robotic, requiring specialised intervention for repairing.
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I relate to your story of the man and his motorcycle. My Honda SUV of many years projects a similar feeling of dependability in all road trip visits I make
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Riding and motorcycling can take us to a different level of meditation. So glad that you could relate to the story. Someone with a passion for motorcycling will certainly be able to relate more to the story. There’s no doubt about that.
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Your writing is so very beautiful.
“He’d fallen in love with this land, its misted mornings, rush-wet forests, and hum of alt-streets buzzing with chai and chatter. He built his cottage, a small wooden sanctuary where fog curled like smoke and time paused to listen.”
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Dear Cindy, thank you so much for always being so appreciative of my writing. I treasure your appreciation. Encouragement really means a lot to me. Thank you for loving the story.
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It was very nice of you to like my post, “On The Other Side Of Pain;” I thank you.
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It’s my pleasure to like it, old friend.
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Thank you very much.
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