In the last few days, my literary adventures have been limited to filling in laptop declaration forms at the entry and exit of my (what Dilbert would call) sensory deprivation chamber. Having been too lazy to look at a workaround (not that it was dancing in front of my eyes, in a kathakali costume), I have been going through the daily routine of writing my name, project details, machine serial numbers, and striking out names of the portable media devices that I don't carry. Occasionally though, I have juggled with the idea of writing Sukumar Ray-esque verses or Didi-esque slogans on the margins to spice up the proceedings, but then I have, till now been successful in fighting that instinct.
It's been a long time since I last blessed cyberspace with my dripping-with-wisdom words and if some people had been celebrating the halt in server space wastage, I have only one thing to say: Sorry to disappoint you folks, but I am back and today I will write about my bicycle.
It has got two tyres, a seat, derailleurs, handle bars and a sense of humour.
In the early nineties when people my age were crazy about cycles with thick-as-a-boa constrictor tyres and herculean frames, I got myself a black, sleek, "super light city bike" - as it used to be advertised. I learnt cycling on it, something which the wise men advise against. This learning business, according to them, is best done on other's machines, for it's quite taxing on the vehicle.
My bicycle took the blows generously. I have always been a fair weather friend to it, always slipping away at the last moment whenever I sensed a tumble, specially while learning to get down. I have banged on walls while trying stunts, on other cyclists while trying I dont know what; I have skid through the road while trying to swap hands on the handlebars (try it, it's not that easy) and knifed through every pool of stagnant water on the road just for the fun of it. But it has never complained, except for making strange noises, especially after a mud-bath.
Oh and yes, it has got a wicked brain too.
Whenever I'd be on the middle of a crossing with vehicles charging in from all directions:
1. The brakes would stop working.
2. The bell would get jammed.
And I would invariably have to:
1. Throw my legs at the ground to get some friction so that I can bring it to halt before I bring someone down on the road.
2. Be amazed at how smooth the brakes and bell would work just at the next moment when not needed. Especially infront of the mechanic who would, in turn be amazed at someone bringing a cycle with perfectly functioning parts for repair.
But riding it was/is great fun. You cannot compare anything to the feeling of the breeze sliding through the crew-cut hair (specially the region above the ears and back of the head!) while pedalling through the beautiful roads of my hometown.
Our relationship has suffered many lows, like the one when one of my friends rode it to meet his girlfriend (you don't need to lend things to school buddies, they just get them from you when they want! ) in a cybercafe and completely forgetting about it's existence, took a romantic rickshaw ride out of the shop to her home. The next afternoon saw a whirlwind of activities including:
1. My calling him to get my cycle back and his rushing to my place and declaring that it was left in front of some cybercafe.
2. The two of us rushing to the cybercafe, obviously not finding my cycle outside, quizzing the security guard, being told that probably it might have been picked up my some mobile police van and that we need to go to the police to have any hopes of getting it back.
3. Under the advice of the security guard, going to the nearest police station, meeting the Kader Khan look-alike inspector and his taking out a map of the city and after many minutes of pan-chewing, telling us that area falls under some other police station.
4. Our calling up an uncle of my friend who besides being a blind Ganguly fan is some high official in the police force, his tracking the cycle down to some police station, and finally our reaching there, finding it reclining against a cell and getting it without much hassles, thanks to the background work done by our beloved "Ganguly-Uncle".
5. My kicking that friend on his backside - one that would make Roberto Carlos proud (Well, not really. I was infact too relieved to get my black beauty back. So much so, that I even dropped him home, on it of course).
It's been a long time since I last blessed cyberspace with my dripping-with-wisdom words and if some people had been celebrating the halt in server space wastage, I have only one thing to say: Sorry to disappoint you folks, but I am back and today I will write about my bicycle.
It has got two tyres, a seat, derailleurs, handle bars and a sense of humour.
In the early nineties when people my age were crazy about cycles with thick-as-a-boa constrictor tyres and herculean frames, I got myself a black, sleek, "super light city bike" - as it used to be advertised. I learnt cycling on it, something which the wise men advise against. This learning business, according to them, is best done on other's machines, for it's quite taxing on the vehicle.
My bicycle took the blows generously. I have always been a fair weather friend to it, always slipping away at the last moment whenever I sensed a tumble, specially while learning to get down. I have banged on walls while trying stunts, on other cyclists while trying I dont know what; I have skid through the road while trying to swap hands on the handlebars (try it, it's not that easy) and knifed through every pool of stagnant water on the road just for the fun of it. But it has never complained, except for making strange noises, especially after a mud-bath.
Oh and yes, it has got a wicked brain too.
Whenever I'd be on the middle of a crossing with vehicles charging in from all directions:
1. The brakes would stop working.
2. The bell would get jammed.
And I would invariably have to:
1. Throw my legs at the ground to get some friction so that I can bring it to halt before I bring someone down on the road.
2. Be amazed at how smooth the brakes and bell would work just at the next moment when not needed. Especially infront of the mechanic who would, in turn be amazed at someone bringing a cycle with perfectly functioning parts for repair.
But riding it was/is great fun. You cannot compare anything to the feeling of the breeze sliding through the crew-cut hair (specially the region above the ears and back of the head!) while pedalling through the beautiful roads of my hometown.
Our relationship has suffered many lows, like the one when one of my friends rode it to meet his girlfriend (you don't need to lend things to school buddies, they just get them from you when they want! ) in a cybercafe and completely forgetting about it's existence, took a romantic rickshaw ride out of the shop to her home. The next afternoon saw a whirlwind of activities including:
1. My calling him to get my cycle back and his rushing to my place and declaring that it was left in front of some cybercafe.
2. The two of us rushing to the cybercafe, obviously not finding my cycle outside, quizzing the security guard, being told that probably it might have been picked up my some mobile police van and that we need to go to the police to have any hopes of getting it back.
3. Under the advice of the security guard, going to the nearest police station, meeting the Kader Khan look-alike inspector and his taking out a map of the city and after many minutes of pan-chewing, telling us that area falls under some other police station.
4. Our calling up an uncle of my friend who besides being a blind Ganguly fan is some high official in the police force, his tracking the cycle down to some police station, and finally our reaching there, finding it reclining against a cell and getting it without much hassles, thanks to the background work done by our beloved "Ganguly-Uncle".
5. My kicking that friend on his backside - one that would make Roberto Carlos proud (Well, not really. I was infact too relieved to get my black beauty back. So much so, that I even dropped him home, on it of course).
It's still there. The roads, though changing quite fast, are still quite pretty and the air too has more of oxygen than carbon monoxide. Even now, whenever I go home, I take it out, dust it and go out on my royal excursions.
As one wise man had once remarked:
If you have a perfectly conditioned cycle, you don't need a girlfriend.
(Go hang yourself if you haven't yet figured out who that wise man is!)
Acknowledgements:
1. NC for that rickshaw ride and the discussion on rickshaws and bringing back memories of my black beauty.
2. Hero cycles for making "Impact". As you can see, that had quite an impact!
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