Welcome to my childhood, where toys were a luxury and owning a bicycle meant that the young bike-owner was exemplary.
Some good behaviour, a shining result card and a few requests later, I was the proud owner of a red BMX, with a step-through frame and a sleek handle. It was love at first sight. Our relationship soared and soon we were inseparable. We took trips together to the nearby market area and occasionally ran errands for my Daadi. Every once in a while, I would take her for a wild tour on the main SherShah Road. We were pushing our limits every passing day until finally her support wheels gave away and she was no more the same bicycle. We had to part ways. Her disability became a big obstacle on us being together and I couldn’t deny the fact that our relationship had nose-dived. She graced our garage while I stopped making an effort to even step out of my room. My Summer fling ended abruptly and in despair. I tried to replace her with OsakaJapan, our video game console, but we couldn’t be mutually exclusive (I had to share it with my younger siblings). Finally, I made up my mind and decided to be the bigger person. I knew I had to make it work even if the whole relationship had to be carried on my shoulders alone. I went up to her, let down my guard and took her out only to return with skinned knees and elbows, bruised legs and a broken heart.
I was sent off to Ami Jan’s house to recover and to get over my failed relationship. In a week, I was up and about and ready to give it one more go. On Ami Jan’s insistence, Pappa brought my beauty there and left her with me so we could work out our issues. I hèsitated initially, she had hurt me. But then, I loved her fondly. She was my freedom, my ticket to independence. We started going out again, but I never rode her. I would walk around the blocks, holding her handle bar, promising never to let go.
My uncle noticed my struggle and decided to help me. He took us to a nearby playground and started the cycling lessons that lasted for about a week. Two of my younger cousins accompanied us everyday. Unfortunately, both of them were better riders than me. The first day, my uncle just held the bike and ran alongside while I pedalled it. But as soon as he would let go, my BMX and I would both crash on the ground. The injuries were minor but the humiliation was larger than life. My cousins would laugh and I got angrier and angrier on her for not co-operating. The second day was the same, no positive outcome only more embarrassment. Those two devils were given chances by my uncle to demonstrate how to ride my bike perfectly and soon I realized that the fault lied in me and not her. Hurt and disappointed, I looked forward to overcoming my weaknesses the 3rd day.
A new plan was then devised my uncle. There was a slope in the play ground and he decided to make perfect use of it. I had to ride down the slope and since the cycle would already be in motion by the time I reached the flat ground, I was only to pedal and maintain balance and voila’ task achieved. My irritating cousin demonstrated how it was to be done. My uncle pushed him down the slope while he balanced atop the BMX, reached the base and squished around the playground. I was so jealous. I promised to out do him right there and then. It was my turn now. I was on the top of the slope, sitting nervously on the seat of my most prized possession, mumbling BISMILLAH, praying to get it right this time. My uncle pushed the bike gently and let go. I was smoothly going downhill, the evening Sun behind me, the wind gushing in on my face, my hair flowing black; it was amazing. I reached the end of the slope and my BMX kept on going. I was happy and felt unstoppable. But then air resistance happened. We were slowing down. I could hear my uncle shouting “Pedal Maro” ( start pedalling) but I couldn’t register it’s meaning. I froze and waited for my bike to slow down and stop. When it finally did stop, I was unable to move and fell on my left, legs entangled in the bike’s frame. I was oblivious to everything after that. I had failed.
The classes went on for a few days. I learnt little but fell a lot. After the slope fiasco, we took chances with riding along the pavement so as to stop falling straight on to the ground. Then, lowering down of the seat and contemplation over getting new support wheels happened. Both plans tanked as my mom knew that then I would never be able to learn the simple art of cycling. A couple of days, some more practice and counselling later, it was established that I was a lost cause. The remaining summer, while I saw my younger sister claiming my ride and riding on it like a pro, even attempting different stunts, I felt like a failure. These days, still haunt me to date as at that time I realised what it felt like not being able to get what you really want.
The universe conspired after that and I finally learnt the sorcery of riding a bike but honestly speaking I can’t really recall the days when that happened. My childhood victory of achieving something which seemed next to impossible to me happened someday and I don’t have a recollection of it. All I remember are the days that marked me as a failure in front of the whole Khan clan. Thus, a good chapter of My failure story.
I would conclude with a cycling joke that still cracks me up.
A boy was gifted a bicycle by his mom and taken to the park for a ride. The boy cycled around the park while the Mom sat on a bench. The first time around he yelled,”Ammi, hathon k baghair” , while taking his hands away from the steering handle. The second time he passed his mother, he removed his feet from the pedals and raising his legs in mid air. He shouted, “Ammi, paoon k baghair. The third time, he got t a bit late. The mother waited anxiously and then finally saw her son covered in mid dragging the bike along. As he got closer, he opened his mouth, toothless and bloody, just to inform his mother, “Ammi,daanto k baghair”.
I know pathetic joke but it always cracks me up!
My Failure Story.. 