To many, Udvada is no more than just a sleepy beach town in Gujarat. It unfolds in a charmingly quaint manner once you pass under its unexpectedly grand archway. This is home to a thinning, but eternally devoted community of Parsis. I’d brought along a Yezdi — which shares more with the ever-industrious Parsis than just a name — in the hope that it would garner us a warm reception.
It therefore, came as a blow when an old gent, rather articulately, asked us to simply leave. His objection was to the wonderfully acoustic ring-ding-ding exhaust note of the Yezdi CL II we’d brought along. Clearly not a fan of two-stroke motorcycles, and perhaps of Yezdi’s unique hidden carburettor feature, he addressed his displeasure with a restrain that implied it may have assumed a violent form some decades ago. Since the solemnity of the Udvada Atash Behram, also known as the Iranshah — the holiest of Parsi fire temples in the country — was at stake, I wheeled the Yezdi out of sight.
In 1970, brothers Rustom and Farrokh Irani had been at the helm of Mysore-based Ideal Jawa for nearly a decade. They enjoyed the goodwill of the Maharaja of Mysore, at whose persuasion a factory to produce Jawas under licence was erected. Terms with the wondrous Czech motorcycle marquee came to an end towards the end of the ‘60s, and, keen on not losing steam owing to this, the Irani brothers decided to continue using existing Jawa mechanicals within a new wardrobe.
This was a good idea — as many of us can attest even decades since — but a nameless one. Inspiration struck when the Iranis looked over their shoulder. Hailing from the Yazd province in Iran, a well-established Zoroastrian settlement even amidst the strong Islamic emergence, the Iranians decided to dedicate their first independent motorcycling venture to their roots. Owing to its largely inaccessible geography, Yazd remained unaffected by the conflict in the region, elevating its status as an indestructible inhabitation. The Iranis’ choice was made simpler because ‘Yazd’ means God in Persian.
The Yezdi brand lived up to its name, too. A battered, weather-worn testimonial to this was by my side, today — a CL II from 1981. Kashif Chilmai, a fellow motoring journalist, owns this motorcycle, which shares its space with a 1973 Jawa 250. His contagious enthusiasm meant the ride to Udvada was cheerful but, thankfully, an uneventful one. He’d never tire of pumping the kick-starter (of which you have to do only half a dozen, on a good day) before the final, definitive kick that would fire the CL II up. It was an oddly satisfying procedure to witness, every time we took a small break in the camera car.
In the labyrinthine lanes of Udvada, the CL II didn’t come across as the pinnacle of two-stroke performance, but it wasn’t so even in its own time. In any case, the ageing populace of the temple town wouldn’t have been quite besotted with a blur of blue smoke. So, I didn’t seem to mind the idyllic 20.5Nm of torque (or whatever was left of it after nearly four decades) and the ‘wingback’ riding position. It really was like being on a reading chair you were likely to find only in your grandparents’ house, except this one had a smoking habit and four gears. The 248.5cc air-cooled engine was designed for a sedentary lifestyle, in a very infectious way.
It was prayer time in Udvada. But well, it’s always prayer time in Udvada. Borrowing from my experience from earlier that morning, I instinctively stalled the Yezdi — finding neutral is notoriously difficult, which is ironic considering just how many false neutrals there are in the gearbox! The Atash Behram — which translates to ‘victorious fire’, the highest grade of ritual fire in Zoroastrianism — is majestic even to those for whom it is out of bounds, and houses the oldest continuously burning fire in the world. It is one of nine such temples in the world, eight of which are in India and only one in Yazd, Iran. The elderly gentleman’s anguish didn’t seem entirely misplaced, in hindsight.
Beyond the short temple street in Udvada, there isn’t much else of significance. I rode past houses left to isolation, momentarily invoking the enthusiasm of strays. Occasionally, I’d stop for a picture or just to soak in a crumbling abode, and then heel-shift into first, a manoeuvre I am yet to master with grace. Closer to the coast, where houses didn’t line the streets, the sun would cast a relaxed shadow of me astride the Yezdi.
We paid a visit to Globe, a sprawling establishment renowned for its hearty Parsi meals and comfortable accommodation. Tucked away within a gated residential community, the quiet staffers did lay down an elaborate breakfast spread — traditional Parsi akuri (creamy scrambled eggs), large slices of bread, a minced meat preparation, tubs of butter and jam, and a tall tea flask. We were soon greeted by the property’s owner — a jovial, bespectacled man we had seen buried into the day’s broadsheets upon entering.
The Yezdi hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, and he was quick to make an animated mention of his youth, much of which he had spent on one. In his sensed of longing, I realised, there never will be anything like the Yezdi again, but there needn’t be either. After all, some fires are destined to burn eternally.
