And it’s indefatigable. With the DTC turned off around corners, it manages to overcome even that fat tyre, snaking through the mountains with an agility that you wouldn’t expect. Cruising on the highway back to Delhi, an Audi Q7 flashes past. The Diavel emits a third-gear whisper, “Let’s get him... come on...” And so I do. Over and over again. The devil makes me do it. Out on The Road, there’s no mistaking who rules.
It’s addictive, the Diavel. It has the presence to bring monks crashing out of their Zen state of mind, as it proved in McLeod Ganj. And like nirvana, it’s also unattainable, unless you happen to have 29,34,089 one-rupee coins in the piggy bank. Someone like me can only hope to sell my soul for the Diavel, if anyone’s willing to buy it. It really is as if Ducati discovered an ancient evil and channeled it into the Diavel to do the rider’s bidding. Even God approves, I’m sure.
(Words: Kartik Ware, Photos: Nitin Rose)