Riding Pillion with Shantaram

Didier Levy was the worst pillion passenger I had ever known. He held on to me so tightly, and with such rigid tensity, that it was difficult to steer the bike. He howled as we approached cars, and shrieked when we sped up to pass them. On critical, sweeping turns he wriggled in terror, trying to straighten the bike from its necessary lean into the curve. Every time I stopped the bike at a traffic signal, he put both feet down to the ground to stretch his legs and moan about the cramps in his hips. Every time I accelerated away, he dragged his feet on the road and fidgeted for several seconds until he found the footrests. And when taxis or other cars ventured too close to us, he kicked out at them or waved his fists in frantic outrage. By the time we reached our destination, I calculated that the danger faced during a thirty minute ride in fast traffic with Didier was roughly equivalent to a month under fire in Afghanistan.