Freedom of choice — funny how a phrase that is seemingly sounds like the ultimate human privilege turns out to be so paradoxical. While freedom implies liberation and the absence of any constraint, choice invites limitation. It narrows your world. Because the moment you pick, you leave all the other possibilities behind. To choose, after all, is to say no to everything else. And yet, there I was — staring at two keys, two roads, two realities. One red, one gold. It felt like a scene from a film we’ve all seen, but never really lived. Except this time, I wasn’t watching someone else make the decision. This time, the illusion of infinite freedom had collapsed into something far more intimate — a binary choice that would define everything that came next.
The red key belonged to the Ducati Multistrada V4 Rally — tall, loud, and unapologetically alive. There was no promise of comfort, but straight-up confrontation. The kind that peels back your layers and forces you to meet your unfiltered self. The gold key, on the other hand, led to the Mahindra XEV 9e — sleek, composed, and precisely engineered to present perfection. It didn’t want your instincts but your compliance. If the Ducati was the voice inside your head you keep buried, the Mahindra was the mask you wear when the world is watching.
The red pill didn’t feel like rebellion, though. It felt like remembering. The moment I held the Ducati’s key, something shifted. Not in the world but within me. It was as if everything I usually suppress — instinct, aggression, hunger for control — suddenly had permission to surface. The Multi V4 didn’t care about the version of me that paid bills or answered emails — It wanted the one I hide. The one that breathes heavier when the road gets worse. Even before I started the engine, I knew this wasn’t going to be a ride. It was going to be a reckoning.
To my eyes, the Multistrada always looked more than just a motorcycle — the towering stance with those big eyes piercing straight into mine. The butch shoulders blocking anything that’s behind it. More than a sophisticated design it was just an unshaken, raw confidence that it perhaps gathered after surviving the conditions worse than I ever did. And that iconic rosso paint? It was a war colour. A colour that asked me if I was ready to face what it had in store for me even before I swung my leg over.
And the moment I thumbed the starter, the 1158cc Granturismo V4 woke up like it had some unfinished business. It didn’t roar… it growled. Almost like sizing me up before letting me on. Even at idle, with its rear-cylinder deactivation kicked in, it felt alive. I rolled out gently, but this one didn’t do gentle. The throttle response was fluid but it always felt like there was something simmering underneath… a restless energy waiting to be unleashed. It felt like me and so I let myself free… the Multi’s sharp, clean punch of torque landed exactly where I wanted it to. Speed wasn’t the thrill here. Focus was. It felt like the machine was pulling my mind into a single filament — thin, tight, and burning.
Loose gravel, puddles, mud — none of it rattled the Multistrada. Well, the Scorpion Trail tyres’ lack of grip in mud did shake me, but it felt like the bike had been awaiting all this chaos. The semi-active suspension wasn’t just reacting… it was anticipating. I always braced myself for an impact that never came. The first real test came on a steep, rutted descent — loose gravel, scattered rocks, and just enough camber to make you question every move. I covered the brakes, feathered the throttle, and the Ducati didn’t just comply — it coached me. The front end stayed planted, the rear hovered on the edge of slip, and somehow, it all felt natural. Like the bike wasn’t reacting to terrain, it was reading it.
It happened on a narrow trail, just as the terrain began to smooth out. I was still in rhythm with the Ducati, rain drops hitting my face, mind somewhere between throttle and thought — when a soft flicker in the mirror caught my eye. The blind-spot alert blinked. Something was behind me. A moment later, the Mahindra XEV 9e whizzed past — silent, clean, deliberate. I clicked the Ducati into radar-guided cruise, let it lock onto the XEV‘s pace, and followed it for a few quiet minutes. And just like that, I felt it — the shift. The contrast. Like I’d been screaming into the wind all day and suddenly the world just stopped to listen.
Sliding into the XEV felt like stepping into character. The cabin didn’t welcome me but it expected me. Everything inside was perfectly aligned, curated, precise. The screens came alive with a muted glow, the surfaces gleamed like they’d been waiting for an audience. Unlike the Ducati, this machine didn’t care about instinct. It wanted composure. It wanted polish, sophistication. Out there, I was raw, reactive, unpredictable. In here, I was who the world preferred me to be — measured, quiet, and perfectly in control. I gently pressed the throttle, and we moved without a sound. This wasn’t a conversation, just a well-rehearsed monologue.
The XEV didn’t need me — not in the way the Ducati did. It observed and reacted to the surroundings more diligently than I ever could. It braked before I reached for the pedal. Nudged the steering when I drifted too close to the edge. Checked my blind spots, monitored my pace, maintained perfect distance from the car ahead. It was impressive — effortless, even. But after a while, I wasn’t sure if I was driving or just being carried. Everything was smooth. Too smooth. No tension, no mistakes, no small corrections to remind me I was still in control. It was the kind of competence that made me invisible — not to others, but to myself. So, I had all the ADAS features ticked off.
But as we covered distance, I found myself glancing at the range counter more than the speedometer. It didn’t matter that I had over 300 km left. What mattered was the creeping doubt: what if that number’s lying? I started recalculating routes in my head. Wondering where the next charger was. Thinking twice before overtaking. There was no smell of fuel, no heat, no urgency — and yet I was more aware of time than ever. Every decision had a quiet consequence. And the 9e, for all its intelligence, didn’t try to calm that voice down. So, I did what I knew best — make the most of it while it lasts.
Now, the XEV was in Sport mode with all that 38.7 kgm of peak twist at my disposal. Expecting some drama, I floored the pedal and… it obeyed. Silently. That wasn’t what I was yearning for. Perhaps, it was the inherent weight of the 79-kWh battery pack that dumbed the excitement. But the broken roads didn’t unsettle it, the suspension seemed ready to take on whatever came its way… but of course, I had to be careful. This was unchartered territory for me.
I parked the Mahindra next to the Ducati, right where the day began. Both were silent now, their heat slowly fading, their personalities tucked back behind plastic and paint. But the feeling they left in me couldn’t have been more different. The V4 Rally made me feel real: dirty, tired, a little reckless, and completely present. The XEV made me feel perfect: aligned, unbothered, smoothed out. One showed me who I was when no one was looking. The other reflected who I’m expected to be. It was the red pill and the golden pill, side by side. And for a moment, I stood wondering which version of me I trusted more.
In the end, maybe freedom of choice isn’t about having options — it’s about what those options reveal. One machine stripped away everything until only instinct remained. The other wrapped me in silence until I almost forgot I had any. I thought I was choosing between two machines, two fuels, two philosophies. But I was really choosing between two versions of myself. And maybe, just maybe, I already knew the answer before I touched either key. Maybe you do, too.
