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The twisted wail of metal scarring pavement shrieks across black, announcing the crash landing of an Enfield Bullet.  Slowly, the helmeted rider staggers to his feet; the familiar thump-thump of the motorcycle recedes as a rush of pulsating blood floods the hermetic bubble covering his head.  He looks left and right; he is standing at the center of an Indian chowk, in Pune City's most perilous peth, as late night streetlamps bathe him in a searing spotlight and the eye of a gathering crowd swirls directly at him.

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