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Cycling
and swimming, these two arts, reside in the
permanent memory. One cannot learn cycling
without falling once; swimming, without coughing
some water through nostrils.
It feels like- just yesterday I was riding my
bicycle to school. Books, thin and fat,
notepads, long and short, stacked in the rear
carrier. There comes my friend with his bicycle.
Keeping one leg over the pedal, he pushes the
ground with the other leg, Newton's third law
applied, it started moving. But, the force F=M*A
wasn't enough, he repeats it three to four times
before the final jump-ride. Oops, what was that?
Some stitches of his pants broke off.
We are pedaling on our way to the school. There,
I see a beautiful girl coming. I try to pedal
faster. With a plea of cranking, the chain slips
off the pulley. I am pedaling in air. She has
noticed it. My phone was being tapped. Who can
explain this embarrassment? My friend is looking
for an electric pole or something where he can
apply external force to switch his bicycle into
a state of inertia, Newton's first law. If it
was apple for gravitation, it must have been the
bicycle for motion, wasn't it, Mr Newton? I put
the chain back to the pulley. Just then a group
of girls passes by. They were staring at me,
didn't I hear them laughing? How funny! Is this
the culture? My hands, painted with grease, my
friend passes a piece of paper to me to wipe it
off. He is my only 'Sahara' at this moment, my
general secretary.
The heavy rains last night has filled the
potholes on the road with water. At one place,
it looks like a mini pond on road. I drive
carefully. Still, my sixth sense fails to notice
a wide crater under water. A thud by the bicycle
seat in the 'Manpuri' constituency has left me
writhing in pain. Just then a truck passes by
splashing me with mud. I read the message next
to a boot hanging between the wheels of the
truck, "Buri nazar waale tera munh kala, fir
milenge".
We see a group of stray dogs, a common scene in
this season. For some reason, one dog barked and
all of them have started chasing us. This time,
it's the turn of the handle. It is moving freely
without turning the wheel. The handle has
managed to get the support of parties left and
right, but still the wheel is adamantly straight
like the press. I have stopped, and so have the
dogs. I have crossed their territory. The cycle
repair shop is just yards away.
The screw is tightened. We are back pedaling our
bicycles. A truck is coming with high speed. It
kept its promise of "Fir Milenge". I am on the
sideway, my friend has to leave the road for the
truck to pass, but the sideway is a foot down. I
scream, "Get down!". There is no electric pole
over there for my friend to stop. He says, "I
can't, some stiches are broken already". The
truck driver looks like an IB director with
proof of links with ISI of a Chief minister (and
an ex-Defense minister). I shout again, "Get
down, now! It's only the pants which is torn
yet, burbak". Phew!
We have reached the school. The line of bicycles
in the stand testifies of our social equity.
That must be the reason why bicycle is the
symbol of a socialist party. We have to park our
bicycles carefully, or the cascade of bicycles
will fall down in a second. I notice the tyre,
it's punctured.
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Comments: |
This
article made me smile. I remember
riding the bicycle to class after a
good rain the previous night. The
potholes were numerous and were full
of muddy water - very innocently
reflecting the tree branches and the
blue sky above. If you had the time,
you could ride slow and try to
navigate the more ominous looking
potholes which were mapped in your
memory as being the "bike breakers".
In a rush, however, when a student
had to go, a student had to go.
Every time I approached a tranquil
pool of a pothole, I said a prayer
in the hope that the pothole would
turn out to be a shallow one.
One also had to be careful because
the "Gope transport" buses with
their evil drivers would come
barelling down the narrow road,
forcing the bike riders on the muddy
flanks, splashing a muddy spray that
would force you to bunk class and go
back to the hostel, cursing and
fuming to get cleaned up and change.
Great article! Brought back a lot of
memories!! - Aarcee - Jan. 31,
2006 |
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