A Lesson learnt in a bike ride

 

Suresh and I have been “riding brothers” for several years now. Most weekends, when time allows, we head out together for what we call a “breakfast ride.” Honestly, I’m still not sure if it’s the ride that draws us or the breakfast. I suppose it’s both—the open roads and the joy of discovering local delicacies.

Over the years, our rides have taken us far and wide—right up to Mulbagal just to savour the legendary Mulbagal dosay  

It had been almost two months since our last ride—he had been away in the US, and I followed soon after. As soon as we were both back, we jumped at the chance to hit the road again. I had long planned a ride through the Devarayanadurga Hills and the Namada Chilume forest stretch. Suresh was in. I asked my other co-conspirator, CK (Kora Mahesh), who recommended a breakfast stop at the famed Gangadhar Idly Hotel in Kyathsandra.(https://maps.app.goo.gl/CxEn2gmws1RR4cHk9?g_st=ipc).

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The Ride Begins

What was meant to be a four-person ride eventually became just the two of us. We met at a meet point on NICE Road and fought through the weekend traffic till we hit the Tumakuru Highway. Breakfast was simple and satisfying at the little roadside eatery, and then we set off towards the hills.

As we left the highway, we passed by the serene and revered Siddaganga Mutt—an institution known for its spiritual, charitable, and educational contributions. The road soon turned lush and winding, thanks to the recent rains that had refreshed the forest landscape.

The Incident

As we began our climb up the hill, navigating hairpin bends, we reached a particularly scenic spot and pulled over for a photo break. We parked our bikes and stood there, soaking in the view, capturing it in both memory and megapixels.

In the process, Suresh casually placed his helmet on the seat of his parked bike, which was on its side stand—tilted. You can already guess what happened next.

Gravity took over.

The helmet rolled, tipped over the edge of the road, and disappeared into a 20-foot ravine covered in thick, thorny undergrowth. We watched helplessly as the expensive helmet vanished into the green abyss.

What Next?

Shocked, we looked around for a way to retrieve it, but the drop was steep and unforgiving. We rode up to Devarayanadurga town and approached the guys collecting the so-called “Panchayat entry tax” to ask for help. They were cold and dismissive.

Note that only Suresh’s bike appears in this photo

We then rode up to the view point, clicked a few more pictures—though our hearts weren’t in it—and toyed with the idea of riding to Tumakuru to buy a new helmet. But Suresh wasn’t convinced. He was ready to ride back without one.

For any serious rider, this is almost sacrilegious. Riding without a helmet isn’t just unsafe—it’s unthinkable. I wasn’t happy, and I could tell Suresh wasn’t either.

The Unexpected Turn

On our way downhill, we noticed a roadside chai shop we had missed earlier. We pulled over for a cup of hot tea—and perhaps some hope. The shopkeeper, warm and welcoming, listened to our story and immediately called a local youngster for help.

Suresh’s perseverance and an obstinate attitude to make it happen had some green shoots now  

Operation Retrieval

Suresh took the young man—probably in his early twenties—to the spot. There was no trail, no path, just a steep drop. What they needed was a strong rope and a sickle to cut through the dense foliage.

As I waited and sipped my chai, the shopkeeper sprang into action and found both.

We three —Suresh, the young man, and the I —set out to recover the helmet. The young man tied the rope securely to a piece of stone , descended into the ravine with the sickle, located the helmet, and cleared the bushes around it. A few minutes later, the helmet reappeared—scratched, but intact.

We helped pull the young rescuer back up, and the three of us stood there, grinning like kids. Mission accomplished. Clicked a photo with the helmet.

The Real Lesson

As we gathered our things, a man on a TVS scooter with his family stopped and asked if we needed any help. We thanked him and said it was under control. But that gesture—just the act of stopping to ask—meant a lot. In a country without 911, people are the emergency response. And they show up.

Back to our young hero.

As he rolled up the rope, Suresh and I quietly discussed—in English, of course—how much we should pay him. ₹500? ₹1000? Should we hand it to him or the shopkeeper?

We settled on ₹1000 and offered it to him.

But he stepped back, almost offended. Then, in simple Kannada, he said something that hit us hard:

“ಸಾರ್‌, ಬೇರೆಯವರು ಕಷ್ಟದಲ್ಲಿ ಇರೋವಾಗ, ನಾವು ಒಬ್ಬರಿಗೊಬ್ಬರು ಆಗ ಬೇಕಲ್ಲವ? ಅದಕ್ಕೆ ಈ ರೀತಿ ತಗಳ್ಳೊದು ಧರ್ಮ ಅಲ್ಲ. ಏನೂ ಬೇಡ ಸಾರ್‌.”

(“Sir, when someone is in trouble, isn’t it our duty to help? Taking anything for it wouldn’t be right. I don’t want anything.”)

That single sentence—a profound truth from a humble villager—taught us, two sixty-something corporate veterans, a lesson we hadn’t expected on a casual weekend ride.

We were humbled, and frankly, a little ashamed that we even considered putting a price on such a selfless act. We insisted he take it, not as payment, but as a small token of our deep gratitude. He accepted it, reluctantly.

Conclusion

Not everything has a price.

Not every act needs to be monetised.

Kindness doesn’t come with a bill.

In a world increasingly transactional, this young man, Naveen reminded us of something priceless—our shared humanity.

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