The Man Who Rode Like a Gentleman

His name was Shubhro Mukerjee
But to us, he was Mr. Salvatori Riggatoni.

A man who could ride a Bonneville T120 like a Gentleman & Switch to a Tiger 900 when needed, and still show up better dressed than all of us combined. Architect by profession, but honestly… a connoisseur of life.

Food, music, drinks, fashion, motorcycles—he knew the best of everything. And not in a show-off way. Just… quiet confidence. No bullshit. Straightforward. Classy.

The kind of man who never tried to impress you, but somehow always did.

He never missed a ride. Not one.

No complaints. No drama. Just showed up, rode, laughed, mixed cocktails, ordered great food, and made the day better.

The First Interaction

Mussoorie ride.

In my head, he was “Uncle Ji on a Bonnie.”

Full fancy riding gear. Cooling vest. In April.

I remember laughing - “Arrey bauji, itni garmi bhi nahi hai… tez chalaoge toh hawa lagegi!”

He didn’t react. Just kept riding at his pace. I decided to trail him.
That day, my Street Triple gave me 28.7 kmpl.
I didn’t even know that number existed.
That was my first lesson from him - not through words, but by example.

Calm. Composed. Effortless.

Becoming Brothers (Without Realising It)

I don’t know when it changed.

Somewhere between rides, conversations, and shared silences…

“Uncle Ji” became someone I deeply respected. Then someone I looked forward to meeting. Then someone who just… belonged.

We even did a podcast together - on riding gear and fashion. He was the best dressed. I was probably the worst.

The funny part?

The actual podcast wasn’t great. But the prep call we did before that… that was gold. Two guys talking bikes, style, life - completely unfiltered. We never recorded it. That memory exists only between him and me.

The Riggatoni Things

Mandawa. Sariska.

Man went hunting for Malta fruit… for a cocktail.

In Alwar.

Found it. Then wanted tonic water. Watching a 50-year-old man get emotionally invested in tonic water is an experience I cannot explain. But that was him. Not selfish. Just committed to doing things right.

Next trip?

He upgraded his luggage setup and started carrying everything himself. That’s how riders should be. Learn. Improve. Repeat.

And do it in style.

When Things Started Going Wrong

Somewhere in early January, I heard he had Hepatitis A.

Resting. Skipping a few Sunday rides. Didn’t think too much of it.

Then he got hospitalized.

That felt… odd. Hep A and hospitalisation didn’t add up. Then discharged. Then emotional. Then weak. One of us spent hours with him and said - “He just needs company. He’ll be fine.”

We believed that. We all did.

The Fight

Then things escalated. Re-admitted.

Then the words you never want to hear - “Last few weeks.” We were asked to get on a video call.

Not to say goodbye. But to fake it. Tell him he’ll recover. Wish him luck for a “surgery.”

Keep it light. I don’t know about others, but I felt he knew. Even when he looked asleep, it felt like he was listening.

Like he understood everything… but chose silence. And that thought still sits heavy.

The Part That Stings

We later found out he had been discharged earlier with seriously bad levels. Because a doctor wanted to wrap things up and move to Dubai. I don’t know how to say this nicely.

So I won’t.

Some things feel… preventable. And that’s what makes it worse.

Not fate. Not destiny.

Just something that slipped. And took a man like him with it.

Hope (For a While)

Plasma therapy started. He responded. We saw improvement. We felt it.

We planned again.

I had promised him - "Nepal ride. 10 days. End of the year."

He started prepping. Looking at gear. Planning like he always did.

That light at the end of the tunnel?

We all saw it.

The End Came Fast

Air ambulance to Chennai.

Top hospital. Best doctors. Friday - Stable.

Saturday Morning - BP Drops. ICU. Ventilator.

7:45 PM… after 45 minutes of CPR…they couldn’t bring him back.

Septic shock. Organ failure. Just like that.

Gone. TO NEVER COME BACK.

What I Saw

That Sunday… the calls, the videos, the prayers. Tears. Regret. Questions.

I couldn’t process the regret.

Because from where I stood - I saw a brotherhood that did everything.

We found doctors. Flooded blood banks. Arranged plasma.

Found livers. Arranged air ambulances. Kept him laughing. Kept him hopeful.

We didn’t give up. Not for a second.

And honestly… I’ve never been prouder to be part of this family.

The Silence After

Next Sunday, we rode.

His helmet. His gear.

Placed between our bikes.

One minute of silence.

Then we went to his favourite café.

Burgers. Beer.

And stories.

Because that’s what he would’ve wanted.

What He Left Behind

He taught me something without ever saying it - Be a gentleman. In everything.

I miss that stupid accent - “I am Salvatori Riggatoni… and I am a Ducati lover.” (You have to see his reels/shorts on our channels for the accent)

I miss the presence. The quiet confidence. The effort he put into living well.

And yeah…Riggatoni, you f*cker…I wish I had done more rides with you.

What Changes Now

We still ride.

Sundays still happen.

But there’s a void.

Some people don’t show up as often. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s this. We still put his name first on the ride list.

Because he still rides with us.

And To The Doc Responsible…

I won’t say much.

Just this - I hope you’re well settled abroad.

I hope life is exactly how you planned it.

And I hope:

•⁠ ⁠Your Tesla leaks oil

•⁠ ⁠Your Ducati needs a Desmo service, every service.

•⁠ ⁠You never find neutral at a signal

•⁠ ⁠And your tyres always have the fattest chicken strips

The Truth

We didn’t just lose a rider…We lost a brother.

And every Sunday, We still ride with him. He'll always ride with us!