The rattle of memory

The bicycle was my dream Pegasus. My ardent desire to own one, however, remained just that—a dream. During my school days, a friend of mine had a bicycle that was very old and in shambles. Its brand name had long faded, and the nameplate—usually riveted between the handle and the front wheel, right below the headlight—had disappeared like horns from a donkey’s head, leaving behind a small scar visible only to curious eyes.

The bicycle appeared to be of a good brand. But with the passage of time, every part had worn out. Yet, it remained functional — thanks to regular greasing of joints and liberal oiling of the ball bearings. The brake lever, sagging like an old man’s denture, was held in place with a wire. The hoots and toots that came from every joint had been quietened over time, though not all the rattles could be muted.  The rear mudguard, for instance, tied with a wire to the stand next to the seat, would rattle rhythmically—creating, to my young ears, beautiful music straight out of an R D Burman tune.

I never missed a chance to push it along. But when I tried riding it once, the hard, sun-scorched seat made me jump off instantly. I pitied my trousers and decided it was better to push than to pedal. Still, with all its flaws and defects, I used to look at that bicycle the way one might look at a beloved — convinced that, with a little care, it could be smoothed into perfection.

My friend’s father mostly used the bicycle to fetch vegetables from the Bengaluru City Market for his small shop in our neighbourhood. The rest of the day, it stood parked beside the shop, idle. My friend, however, proudly took it along wherever he went -- just to brag about owning a bicycle.

After school, we all scattered into different colleges to pursue further studies. Many of us joined PUC, while my ‘cycle friend’ joined a polytechnic course. Once in a while, we met at our usual haunts in Bengaluru —Breeze Restaurant on Brigade Road or Hotel Elite near Majestic. Over cups of ‘fractional’ tea, we would spend hours chatting away.

One evening, as we stepped out of Elite, a Route No 16 bus slowed at the corner. We jumped aboard, laughing, as it gathered speed. My ‘cycle friend’ hopped along too, and we all went home happy. That night, he woke up with a start, realising he had left the bicycle chained to the hotel compound grill. In panic, he got dressed to go retrieve it—then stopped himself with a wry smile and a reassuring thought: “Who would ever want my bicycle?” Comforted, he went back to sleep. The next morning, he walked confidently to Hotel Elite—and there it was, exactly where he had left it.

That incident became the comic highlight of our youth, a story we laughed about for years. My friend is no more, but the laughter lingers.