Ever since I can remember, I was obsessed with bicycles. I spent most of my childhood roaming around my then deserted neighbourhood in South Bangalore, on foot or on a cycle. I had an unnatural obsession for anything with two wheels. I used to jealously follow the kid down the road with the brown Hero ranger, who could cycle on one wheel for ages, and dream of owning a Hero Hawk – a road bike that was popular with the high school kids who used to tower over me then.
It had started with rides that my older brother and I used to get on my Granddad’s cycle, round and round on the huge driveway in his Government-allocated house in Madhya Pradesh. I had gotten addicted to the quiet movement, and the wind in my face. My father used to drop me off at my bus stop on his cycle too, until my Granddad started using it to get around Bangalore, after he moved less than a kilometer away from us after his retirement.
By this time I had my own cycle, a shiny red “Wild Cat”, with plastic spokes and a bell, delivered from a store near Town Hall. I dutifully promised to ride it carefully. Within a month, I’d ripped off the training wheels in frustration, and started riding like I was possessed. This enthusiasm led to skinned elbows, multiple scars on my knees, and many failed stunts – barring the “no hands” trick. Maybe it was my impatience or the aforementioned shenanigans that finally got me on the wrong side of my mother, but I was quickly turned into a caged bird.
“No matter what, you can’t go beyond these 4 roads.”
TheMonochromeCollective 