Invisible Armies

The midday sun beat down on the parched earth of Karnataka, casting long, distorted shadows. Danielle, astride her Bajaj Pulsar, stared disbelievingly at the gaping chasm before her. The road, perfectly smooth moments ago, ended abruptly, dissolving into a 'leprous mass of concrete' and rusted girders that reached out, failing to bridge the forty-foot gap across the Tungabadhra River.

Her map, claiming a successful traverse, was a cruel joke. The next crossing was miles away, an hour she didn't have. Defeat tasted bitter, and for a moment, the thought of abandoning this ill-fated errand, a favor to a friend she already regretted, was a welcome relief.

Then, movement. A large, inverted dome-shaped wicker basket, a coracle, emerged from the shadowed water, carrying two men. One paddled with a leaf-shaped oar, the other waved, pointing to a dirt trail leading down to the riverbank. They couldn't seriously mean to ferry her motorcycle across. It was heavy, and their 'overgrown basket' looked as flimsy as a banana leaf.

But another coracle followed, laden with villagers, grain sacks, and a man on a similar motorcycle, bobbing low but miraculously not sinking. The thought of backing out evaporated. Reluctantly, Danielle wheeled her bike around, guiding it down the steep, muddy path. When she reached the landing, the two ferrymen gaped at her, struck dumb. It took her a moment to realize: they thought she was a man. Her close-cropped hair, her motorcycle – she was an exotic white woman, alone, riding a bike, in 'real rural India'. An unsettling realization of her vulnerability settled in.