The Hand behind…

I must have been three when I first sat on the handle bar of my dad’s Hero cycle. He had installed a small seat so that my derriere would be cushioned against the unavoidable bumps on the road. I would sit wide eyed holding the front bar feeling the breeze hit my face as we would ride to Juhu beach every Sunday. This was our weekly ritual; a treat I looked forward to Monday onwards.

I have a treasure trove of memories from those days when he would hike me up to the handle bar, skip and jump on to the cycle, his assuring shoulders behind me manouvering the cycle with dexterity and the familiar yet unique sweet scent of his body. He would indulgently allow me to ring the cycle bell to shoo away errant jaywalkers and handcart pullers who would stray into our path. This was when Mumbai was not invaded by the maraudering hordes from Bihar and UP plying their flying coffins that pass for auto rickshaws today.

One week before my birthday he would ask me what I wanted and tried his best to get it for me. By my sixth birthday he had sold the cycle. I had anyway outgrown the small seat on the bar and missed our weekly rides and the treats on the beach. So when my birthday was round the corner I expressed my grand desire to have a cycle of my own. For the first time I saw his face contract with a hint of dejection but his eyes did not betray the emotion. He smiled with the familiar radiance that never failed to light up my world. The next few days were observantly muted in our house with a palpable sense of austerity in the air. My strained effort to grasp words in the whispered discussions between my parents was to no avail.
Meanwhile I was already riding the bike in my mind, its gleaming red color streaking past trees and my friends looking at it longingly.

Three days before my birthday my mother came and sat next to me as I was just about about to have my post lunch siesta after returning from school. She is a typical boisterous punjabi woman but that day she sat gingerly and was looking into my eyes nervously. I was quite confused ’cause as far as I knew I had not fought with anybody in the neighborhood, had no remarks in my school handbook, passed my exams with decent marks and had not pestered my sisters lately.

“Do you really want that cycle for your birthday this year?” she asked suddenly her welled up eyes threatening to overflow. And then everything fell into place - the gloom in the air and the whispers late into the night, my dad’s studied silence at the dining table.
“Not if it is going to be a problem I said. I can wait.” My reply was braver than the inherent strife a child feels when denied what his heart desires most. My mother cried.

She woke me gently on the day of my b’day and wished me. My dad and sisters followed. We had a big Sunday breakfast and the happiness had returned to our house. After some time my dad took me aside and said “Why don’t we go for a walk.” He held my hand and we started walking the main road, he with purpose and I in awkward silence. He treated me to my favorite ice cream and we bought a chocolate cake for the b’day party in the evening with my name written in pink icing. After a few minutes he stopped in front of a shop where there were many cycles. My heart was thumping now; and I caught hold of his shirt in excitement. He bent gently and smiled, “Listen, I have an idea. Why would you want to have only one cycle to ride everyday? This shop has so many cycles and they rent it out for 50p per hour. I will give you Rs. 10 every week and you can rent which ever cycle you want.” He said with sincere affection.

We rented a red cycle right away. He sat me on the seat and held it from behind to gently push and balance the cycle at the same time. From that day onwards I would take him to the shop everyday and he would patiently hold the seat and push the bike. After about ten days without a warning he let go of the seat after pushing the bike some distance. I glided for some time before the cycle started wobbling and I looked behind frantically only to see him standing at a distance looking at me assuringly. And before I knew it I was on the ground with a scraped knee. Four days from then I was riding on my own. I can still taste the sense of freedom I felt when I saw my shadow on the ground riding the bike without my father behind me, like a fledgeling bird who spreads his wings for the first time.

I have never owned a cycle since then. I have owned a mobike, three cars and even a pair of roller skates but never a cycle. I don’t know why.

My ten year old daughter’s b’day went by last week. “What do you want for your b’day?” I asked her a day before the event. “I want a cycle papa.” she answered, bringing back a flood of memories. “What are you thinking about?” she jolted me out of my stupor after I did not respond for a long time. “Will you buy it for me?”.
I called her over and gave her a tight hug surprising both of us.

There is a shining new red bike in our garage now. I rode it in our building compound the day it arrived and I saw my shadow on the ground. I looked to the heavens hoping dad would be watching, I missed his steadying hand, his assuring and patient voice goading me on, teaching me the thrill of being carefree and happy. I smiled as I came to a halt next to my daughter. I knew I would do the same for her. I would help her feel the wind in her face…It was my turn to be the guiding hand behind.