An absolutely sensational surreal Blue Frog story

This is straight out of Hunter S Thomson, rest his soul. As gonzo as it can get! For once this is not apocryphal but it sure is the stuff legends are made of!

Normal night at Blue Frog. Swanky cars being valet parked, couples and groups of all ages streaming in, ordering drinks, waiting for the band to start off and swaying gently to the hip-swivelling, acoustically-perfect recorded music that plays before the set. One young gentleman who walked in on his first Blue Frog night noticed a Yezdi motor-cycle parked within the vicinity.

He notices the same bike parked at exactly the same spot the second time he visits the place. Gathering dust. Lying abandoned. The third time he visits Blue Frog, he again sees the bike rooted in its spot in abandoned glory, dirty and dysfunctional.

For those who don’t know, Yezdi motorcycle was brought to India by an Indian of Iranian descent (fondly known as bawas in Mumbai) way back in the 50s. This bawa rode the bike from its country of origin, Czechoslovakia, to India, negotiated a technological collaboration with the Czech company and started manufacturing the bike in India first under the name of Jawa and later as Yezdi, named after one his sons. Early 80s, the plant was shut down and its not produced anymore.

I don’t know the exact figure but there must be millions of Jawa fans in India. Some of them are obsessed. Like global Harley cults, India too has had its share of Bullet (Enfield bikes) cults, and Yezdi enthusiasts.

Well, our hero of the story – in his 20s – is an obsessive Yezdi maniac. Each day he spotted the orphaned bike, he would drool wistfully. For the rest of the world, that bike was junk. Our young hero saw her as a wanton woman abandoned, ungroomed, destitute and forlorn.

Finally he couldn’t take it any more. So one night, he took her away. Just like that. Picked her up, shook off her dust as best as he could, and rolled her over to his mechanic almost 5 kilometres away, heaving and panting in the middle of the night. The mechanic was well-known to him and he knew his penchant for Yezdis.

It took the mechanic better part of the week to get the bike ship-shape. Cleaned, washed and polished, the bike was over-hauled thoroughly. Single kickstart had that Yezdi purring like a Cheshire cat with cream. Our hero was thrilled.

First he scrutinises her from all angles, wiping an imaginary grease stain here, a dust speck there. He fondles her all over, then sits on her, missionary-like, and kicks the lever to start. (In Yezdis keys don’t actually matter. Any longish rod will go into the keyhole and it can be started). She purrs with all her wanton abandon. He pushes the throttle a wee bit. She roars. A bit more and she was all frothing to leap ahead.

The hero took off. First to the nearest gas station. Filled her up. And then he rode ahead on Mumbai roads to tame her and as they say in bike parlance, “break the bike” (even though it wasn’t a new one).

Meanwhile, that bike belonged to someone working at and for Blue Frog. This person was from out of town, and had ridden into the city to work at Blue Frog. One day when the bike did not start, he just dumped it near the vicinity. He did not know any Yezdi bike mechanics in the city. (A true blue-blooded biker will only get the bike serviced from mechanics who specialise in particular bikes). So each day he would see his bike gathering dust and would think, “I must ask someone about any Yezdi mechanic around. Most patrons at Blue Frog come in cars. Who do I ask. Well, someday I’ll find out…”

Till that night when he did not see his bike at all. He asked the securiuty guards, etc., none of whom had seen the bike being moved. The poor out-of-town chap panicked. He knew his bike had been stolen. He told everyone, his employers etc. about the loss of his abandoned bike and was advised correctly to report the theft to the police. He gave the registration number, colour, make, looks and all other details to the cops. Somewhere deep down he felt he had lost the bike for good and was severely depressed.

Cut to our young hero who had his fill of the thrill on the Yezdi on the roads of Mumbai. When evening came, he decided to return the bike in working condition, tanks still full, to its original place.

Our hero rides his baby to Blue Frog. Takes her right up to the place where she was originally found abandoned. Puts her on the stands, rubs his hands over the chrome and the seat for one last time, fondly, and turns to enter the Blue Frog Club when he sees a posse of five cops surrounding him.

They asked him if he had stolen the bike. He denied. He confessed that he had indeed taken the bike, but only to get her working. He couldn’t bear the sight of a Yezdi lying abandoned. So he took it – without permission (because he didn’t know who the owner was; he genuinely thought someone has abandoned the bike) of course – got it fixed and working, filled the gas and returned the bike to its original place.

For a moment the cops were taken aback. They did not how to react. So they called the person who had reported the theft from Blue Frog. He was thrilled to see his bike and angry at the thief. The thief was then presented to the victim. The cops first explained to him that this is the guy who stole your bike, only to get it repaired and returned to is original place. When the cops came to know that the thief was a bawa, they just laughed it all off to the bawa idiosyncracy and walked away.

The victim just didn’t know how to react. He was thrilled to find his bike, all spruced up and working. Naturally, the two of them became friends. Our hero then introduced the out of town worker to his bike mechanic and the poor Blue Frog executive was thrilled to have his bike “stolen”. As a token of appreciation legend has it that the owner of the bike gave our hero a big chunk of a substance that enhances the musical experience oh-so-more.

That is the point of my envy! If I knew that was the prize, man, even I would have stolen the bike. And that is where a Hunter Thomson story would actually gain momentum. Hunter Thomson would get his cartoonist pal Ralph Steadman as a pillion, load the bike with lovely mesmeric substances, vroom his way inside Blue Frog perhaps and all over the country and perhaps write a book called Fear and Loathing at Blue Frog – In search of a Musical Nirvana!

Ain’t the story surreal? And ain’t it sensational! I might have stretched a few details but it actually happened. Not too long ago. Recently. At Blue Frog.

For me, this incident not only defines a Blue Frog chapter (kind of a lore that ought to be become a part of BF history), it also contextualises the Blue Frog concept where music is an experience that is often enhanced by mad, creative, honest and obsessive eccentricity that flanks the genius from all ends.

That’s Blue Frog for you – during its debut month!