A Pair of Wheels

We had a bicycle when I was a kid. A color faded Atlas that my dad had bought in Calcutta when he was studying. It was around 10/15 years older than me so the reason for its faded color was obvious.

When I was in my fourth standard, my dad got transferred. Since the official accommodation was not available for a while, we had to stay at a rented place a little far from the town. My school was close to my dad’s office. My brother’s school was on the way. Every morning, my dad would take us to our school on that cycle. I would sit on the front bar; my brother’s place was the carrier behind the seat. We would hang our bags in the handle so that we could sit comfortably. Since I was sitting on the front, it was my responsibility to see that the lunch boxes did not go upside down in the jerks. Dad used to drop us in our school and go to his office. Our school used to finish a little early so we would go to Dad’s office after school and wait there till he finished his work and then comeback together. After a few months, my dad got the official quarter in the colony and we shifted there. Since it was close to his office and our school, the cycle was not used frequently.

It was probably during the summer vacation after my fifth standard, I decided to learn cycling. I was too small for that cycle so like many others there, I used to pedal it in a typical way called the Monkey style. You hold one side of the handle with your left hand, hold the seat with the right, put your legs through the frame to reach the right pedal, push the cycle for some distance and then take left foot on to the left pedal.

I took a little longer than others to learn cycling. My friends learnt it in just a month or two but I remember having trying till I entered my sixth standard. In the last few periods of the day, I would be thinking of cycling more than what the teachers’ teachings. The moment the final bell rang, I would run home and grab the cycle.

Finally I learnt cycling in around four months. I still remember the excitement. I was cycling like crazy. I stopped every uncle on the way to show that I learnt it. I went to every friend’s place just to tell them I have come cycling. I was free bird.

That cycle became my best buddy. Somehow I developed a bond with it. For others, it was just a pair of wheels, but it had become a part of my life. More than the friends who played with me, who sat next to me in school, who shared the same fantasy as mine, who were living beings, I loved my cycle.

One day I came back from school and I didn’t find it at home. Someone had stolen it. My dad was sad. I was in tears because I lost the one thing that was the most precious thing to me at that time. We tried our best to trace it, we failed. Sometime later, dad got a new bike. Even I got a new cycle when I reached the eighth standard. That cycle was past, history. I am not sure if anyone at home still remembers but despite the fact that it’s been years and I have my own bike today, I still miss that cycle.