Courtship

Tags

Agassi Becker rivalry, Andre Agassi, Boris Becker, Der Bomber, nostalgia, passion for tennis, Steffi Graph, Tennis

There is something about old things that trigger a flurry of emotions. You pick up an old box, an old picture, an old piece of shirt and memories just start tumbling out. For me, it was neither an old box nor a closet cleaning spree but an interview in the yesterday’s newspaper of a guy I worshipped in my early teens, the perfect time for first crushes, stolen glances and coy smiles.

                            Andre Agassi And Boris Becker After a Match                                                    Andre Agassi

I was barely 12 when I found posters of Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf with John McEnroe pasted on my side of the closet by my ever domineering brother.  He had already decided that Andre and Steffi belonged together and they did eventually (after a decade and a half).  Those who are not clued in to who they are, they are the tennis superstars and Gods on clay, grass and hard court. We had a fight over it back then and I was about to tear one of the posters when he ransomed me with a big bowl of ice-cream and I gave it up.  Besides, I had grown fond of the long locks and the pierced ear of Andre to let go of him. Brother was happy that he won and I was happy that an eye candy was right on my closet.

That’s exactly the same poster I had on my closet…

They were permanent fixtures in the bedroom we shared. Then came the man with blonde hairs, blond eye lashes, chocolaty looks and a powerhouse on grass court. Boris Becker, his boyish charm swept me off my feet and when dad and brother caught on to his matches on TV, I gelled with them to watch him sway his arms stylishly and his legs fiercely.  His serves were astonishingly powerful; no wonder people called him ‘Der Bomber’. I remember watching one match of him with Andre Agassi ball to ball thinking that which one of my heart throbs will win the title. Agassi won that day and I still remember him getting down on his knees, fists up in the air, celebrating that moment of winning from his bitter rival. You could feel the elation just being wired out of the TV and rising hairs at the back of your neck. And the sad sullen face of Becker just refused to leave my dreams for many days thereafter. Few years later when brother went off to hostel and gave me the freedom to rip every bit of his memory off, he was surprised to find the posters intact on his next visit.  I had fallen, not only to their charm but their passion too.

I don’t remember when I stopped following the game. It must have been the time when one by one all my favorite icons retired from the sport and it started looking dreary and dry despite fresh faces.  Now, I just pick up bits and pieces on news. Federer and Nadal’s rivalry remind me of the Becker-Agassi times but not enough to watch the entire match point by point.

But when yesterday I read a long interview of Boris Becker for TOI, one of my long lists of crushes, it caught me unawares and I was again sapped into the adrenaline rush of match points. Just two lines in the interview summed up the passion he has played with. He said, “There is a different smell when you have been part of the locker room.”  It takes years to have that kind of passion for the game. He became a Wimbledon champ at the age of 17 and still had the perspective to say in one of the games, “It was not a war and nobody died there.”

Can one have such a leveled head, be at the top for years and still give more than 100% to that one and only thing in life that defines you? But then not everyone can be a legend that he is.

Memories, they suddenly take you back to the wonderland you once lived in and then you are brought back to earth with pressing demand of a 5 year old to sit with him for finger painting. Such is life.

I Am Still

Tags

free writing, short fiction

The world around me moves in circles. The sun sprinkles its morning haze, the rays light up the darkest corners, the warmth tingles my neck, my back, the bare starved skin.  I soak the sun and wait for my shackled heart to be liberated. I am broken in pieces that I can never gather. I walk barefoot, some glimmer, some make me bleed, the shards of my life. Something crawls under the wounds as if to discover the secret of life. I wish I hadn’t seen it – the deep eyes, the magnetic smile – the mirage in the dry desert.  It was a mirage after all. I am still and the world moves about me.

P.S. It is a piece of fiction but really, thank you guys for so much of concern.

 

Rare Commodity

Tags

1984 riots, 2002 riots, Amritsar, golden temple, secularism, the failure of humanity

I lasted more than I thought I ever would be. I hung on to my thoughts more than I thought I ever contemplated. I was a nomad, I was happy playing in mud and holding mini tea parties for my dolls when it actually happened and when I read about it, many years later, it burned my feelings and I didn’t even see the ashes.

Visiting Amritsar, when I was a kid, was more than just a pilgrimage to a holy place. We used to board a train for our 4 hour journey because we kids loved it and then we were in heaven. Eating Kulchas, buying little souvenirs, running around in the parikarma and sometimes buying new things from the famous markets. I don’t think I knew the meaning of God then. All I knew was to bow my head and to be silent when in the sanctum sanctorum and then scream as soon as we were outside complaining about how my brother pushed me and took all my Prasad.

Then for few years, visits just suddenly stopped. I remember asking once or twice about it because I missed the liberation, the vacation and dad just telling me, “The time is not right.” Though I never understood what he meant, but I never questioned him as more important things beckoned me like the hide and seek and the swings.

We or rather I was insulated to what was brewing and why the time was not right. I kept hearing the conversations where my parents were always worried about our relatives in Delhi. Something had broken and they were no longer safe in their own homes, in their own country. Many years later, I realized it was not just the riots but the trust, the feeling of belonging that was broke more than anything else.

They lived to tell the tale, they lived to tell that how their neighbors helped them in their escape on that fateful night in Shahdara when suddenly an angry mob started knocking door to door looking for Sikhs, pulling them out when found and burning them alive by tying their hands and putting tyres in their necks. The next day, all that was left was the charred bodies, burnt houses, wailing widows and screaming toddlers. While hiding behind the door, hearing their conversation, I wondered why they did that. I couldn’t find any answers.  After all, dad always said, “No religion teaches violence. It is the few rotten apples that can be found anywhere. ” And people from same religion helped them in escape too.

But I wondered how the strength of rotten apples was much more than the good. 3000 dead bodies littered all over Delhi, deafening the atmosphere with their silence and still asking what was their crime, what was the crime of their wives and their sons and daughters who are alive and yet dead seeing their own husband, father burnt in front of them.

I wanted to find answers. I read and read a lot, saw documentaries and all I could found in that rubble was blood, memories, broken promises of a newly wedded husband to a wife, of a father to a daughter, of a picture that remained unframed because the husband never got to see it, of flailing arms with warm yellow hues all around them, of lives that never stopped but never forgot too.

Are we proud to have a settlement named ‘Widow Colony’? Yes, we have such place in Delhi where the widows of this massacre live and their eyes are still wet with the tears that are yet to stop, even after 29 years. The daughters are married, the sons have moved on. At that time, it was formed so that they can together heal their wounds and today it stands as a testament to the harsh fact that husbands here are a rare commodity.

We scream secular till our voices become hoarse, we cry democratic when it comes to every 5 years of getting that black mark on our nails, we yell liberated until we waste ourselves and the moon becomes hazy ; how misguided we are. We are none of that.

I am ashamed; I really am – for 1984, for 2002, for the bruised humanity, for the deeply inflicted cuts in the name of religion, for the fact that we haven’t yet learned from the past mistakes. And yet I want to move on. But can I really move on with the nagging feeling that says it can happen again? It can because we are still that intolerant country who cringe our noses under the garb of secularism.

Jai Ho!

Tags

ambedkar cartoon, banned essay in DU, banning of movies, Controversies galore, freedom of speech, freedom to read, Selena Gomez

Photocredit – freedomcontributors.wordpress.com

Have we lost our sense of humor or the funny bone has decided to go on a permanent vacation? I have heard the rumor that tolerance power has also joined the lovely Caribbean beach vacation funny bone is on. They may soon announce their nuptials and may not ever return to the ‘fair land’. So that’s what happened to ‘laugh and take it in the stride’.  And ‘live and let live’. Well, to be honest ‘live and let live’ is an oxymoron for most of us but still we had the patience to take the minor jibes and move on.

First slide hit me when that (in) famous Ambedkar cartoon made the entire Parliament yell in unison, quite a feat, isn’t it! And then NCERT swung into action and the cartoon was sent to oblivion just like the man himself. He had better sense of humor because it was first published in 1949 when the respected Mr. Ambedkar was still very much alive and laughed while reading the morning paper with a cup of tea.

The next blow came when a particular essay written by renowned scholar A K Ramanujan was eliminated by DU from BA History (Hons) because it talks about 300 different versions of Ramayana in our own country and beyond. Are we now botching the freedom to read as well after freedom of speech and freedom of expression? Actually we have been doing it all along, not as hypocritically as these instances. But banning books and movies is our favorite past time.  Recently a movie on terrorism ‘Sadda Haq’ was banned in North but saw the light of day in Canada and US. So as per the moral high ground police, it will now spoil the youth in US of A and Canada than our very own ‘naïve’ youth of Punjab.

And the latest issue is the most heartening one. The bindi controversy people, the bindi. Apparently Selena Gomez has now hurt the sentiments by wearing a bindi in her performance for her new single ‘Come and Get it’. Oh! C’mon, she is not talking about the bindi.  I am sure the purists found it offending when they read the title itself. And her moves are not even close to the raunchy Desi Sheila or Miss Fevicol whose choli is even shorter than the bikini. Well, the pop star that she is, she is still wearing the bindi for all her performances and the benefit is that even I opened the video to see what is all the hullabaloo about.  She is of the crop of Justin Beiber (his ex-girlfriend apparently) and I only come to know of her through the Breaking News she is lapping up these days. Well, how can Hindu priests take it lying down? After all bindi is the birthright of just Indians; it doesn’t matter if they wear it in even more seductive and suggestive moves as Chitrangada in ‘I want just you’.

Hats off to the purists, the fundamentalists and the Parliamentarians. If it hadn’t been for you, the culture(s) of India would have gone down the drain and who would have yelled at the top of the voice, “Bharat mata ki Jai” Oh! but Mother, next time you pose for a picture, don’t look 36-24-36. This perfect figure spoils the girls of India and offends the beloved Indian brothers who might start stalking you.

Cocooned

Tags

Being an introvert, happiness, inner world

Not so long ago I was employed with an MNC. I always did my work very immaculately. After two years of work, I got the opportunity to change my role into more technical profile and I grabbed it. Right from day one I was giving tough time to the software developers (which was btw very good for my profile) and so the hassled developers pointed out. Appraisal time and everyone already started speculating me being the exceptional performer. I was called inside the boss’s cabin. He handed me my appraisal and I was in for a rude shock.  I asked him the reason for putting me in average slot and he quipped, “You need to be more interactive. Talk to people, go to their desks.”

I interrupted and said, “How does that make me less efficient. I have never missed my targets. Look at the bugs I have uncovered. They were in the system right from the time that code was written. And how about contributing right from day one despite a new role! ”

Words exchanged, discussion turning somewhat heated but nothing came out of it.

The writing was clear on the wall – no one noticed me.  I never talked about myself or my work to the top brass. He told me in his sugar coated lingo that I was not visible. And I understood what being visible meant. It was not just the work but how people saw it mattered. Being introvert became an instant ineligibility for me.

And that was not the first time. In school, in college, being misunderstood was common ground. There was only a few selected set of friends I was completely comfortable with and hence more chatty with. The others showered me with syllables like arrogant, too lost in herself, can’t fit in groups and so on. And they were not so wrong. For me group was and is still a closed circle, the circle that has only likeminded people. I may be too selective but it is not just a mental process I go through, it is how I am built.

And when I try and start small talk, I fall on the ground with my mouth filled with dirt. That certainly doesn’t make a pretty scene. So in a party, I am the one huddled in the corner seeking desperately for at least one face that eases me and in kid’s birthday parties, I am the one who always have this silly smile on face which makes my face hurt at the edges because I don’t know what else to do.  Same goes for the apartment complex I live in. I say ‘Hi’ and ‘How are you?’ and then I give a silly smile as if all the words draped around me just decided to fly out of the window and leave me uncovered.

The inner world is pacifying and I like it there. Well, if that’s a disqualification, then be it. If my inner voice is louder than the chatter in front of me, then be it. If you can hear my inner voice, then you are someone I will treasure for the rest of my life. If you think that I need to be transformed, then I am happy without you in my life. And that wisdom my dear did not come with the wisdom tooth that has very recently decided to find a place in my already overcrowded mouth. That came with the acceptance that I am an introvert and it is not a disqualification. It is just a way of life.

What are baby teeth going for these days?

Tags

milestone, Missing tooth, parenting

The alarm is cursing me that it has to ring at its usual time on a Saturday as well. And I am reciprocating the sentiment and twisting in bed hoping that it is a mistake. All this because the summer camp has started and it is even more hectic than school.  I put my son in summer camp thinking that instead of creating ruckus at home, he should be doing that at the camp and instead they decide to rob me of my beauty sleep on a beautiful Saturday morning.

Anyways, I groggily wake up, drag myself off the bed and BAM, hit the bean bag and fall on it. I am the eternal fumble bumble and my husband is so used to it that he doesn’t even move slightly to check what has happened. He would rather get up and ask the bean bag if it is alright. So I gather my sprawled limbs and freshen up. I rush to the kitchen, pack the lunch, iron the clothes, warm the water a bit and then go to wake up the sunshine. He is literally Sunshine because within two minutes of waking up, he has this 100 watt smile on his face that can light up the grumpiest of faces and that includes me.

And there, I see the bottom front slot neatly empty as if it was never there. The tooth, the milky white tooth is gone and my son looks at me in horror. Because within fraction of seconds, I have this look of shock cum fear cum laughter cum anxiety. You can imagine how I look like and then I start rolling with laughter on the bed. I am so amused by it that my son is scratching his head. Then I pick him up and make him stand in front of the bathroom mirror. He lifts his heels to have a proper look at himself. I tell him to smile and as soon as he notices it, he guffaws and says, “No teeth.”

Then I run back to the bed and lift the pillows and the sheets to see if the lost tooth is hiding under them but no luck. I don’t know where the lost tooth is, may be the tooth fairy took it without proper notice or my son found it delicious enough to swallow it. In either case, he now smiles like a cute villain whose lower tooth has gone missing in a fist fight with tooth fairy.

So I wanted to check what are baby teeth going for these days, anyways? I am planning to compensate with a large bowl of ice cream and a sticky toffee. Would that be enough?

A Fight Not Worth Losing

Tags

Autism, battle of autism, for parents of children with autism, how to overcome autism

When Sharon saw her newborn for the first time, her eyes just lit up with dreams of his delighted chuckles and naughty caricatures of the days to come. Life was blissful and she could not ask for more. As he started to walk, the dreams got bigger and with every step, the hopes too. Every milestone right from holding a spoon, eating on his own to just a first time babble was a stepping stone to success… success in life. A little miss and she would make a mental note but would patiently wait for things to happen.

She still remembers vividly the video she made of him on his first birthday. He was playful, enjoying everyone’s company and giggling. Sharon knew her son was special but that tag would literally stick to him in the years to come is no mother’s dream.

When he didn’t speak even a single word at one and half, he was a late bloomer to her. “It is just a delay. Boys speak little late all the time”, she would say.  But something about him was changing. Whenever she would sit to teach him the minuscule things like nose, eyes, he would just look the other way, “what a naughty little fellow you are”, she would smile and let it go. “It may be just an instinct to avoid learning. After all, he is just a baby”. The friends would come home but he wouldn’t like to play with them and she would say, “He is an introvert.” She would get the best of the toys and he would just pick a bottle of water and spend hours just watching the water touching the shores. She would feel surprised, and many a times annoyed. He would listen to the door bell but not when she would call out his name. Was it a warning of the storm that beckoned them?

She waited till his second birthday for him to call her ‘Mumma’ but he didn’t budge. Was she in denial all this while? Was something wrong with her child? She decided to make his video again and to her surprise, he was not at all the same old child she filmed about a year ago.

She could no longer wait for things to get well on their own. There was no magic wand that would go “Pooph” and her problems would be gone. So after a series of tests and grueling sessions with professionals, life just turned upside down with the revelation that her son had autism.

My mirror image, the closest friend I can ever have, was standing face to face with the reality that we only see in movies or read in magazines. It was literally the thud of lifetime for her. As her world came crashing down, she lost all hope. But that one smile – the smile from her little one gave her the motivation to go on and make life worth living – for her and most importantly for her son. She may be struggling everyday with the condition of her child, but she is making sure that he lives a life that he deserves and be at par with every other child around him.

We live in a hypocritical society where a child with difficulty is not easily acceptable. You will be constantly nudged and pulled down right from the school on your wish list to your nosey neighbors. But what you have to realize is that Autism does not have to be a lonely and dark existence. Such children generally have above average intelligence and have the personality to match. They only lack social skills that hamper their speech development and interaction with the world.

Yes, frustration does set in when you see your child behaving differently and there comes a big ‘why me’ phase. But you have two choices. One – you can sulk, frustrate, get embarrassed and do nothing. Second – you can get up, pull up your socks and double your efforts with all the conviction. The results are not immediate but with focus, extra attention and patience, things do improve. It hurts when someone says that your child does not mingle, does not look eye to eye, does not behave his age but you have to look at the bigger picture, the goal towards which you and your child is moving may it be step by step.

What we, the people in the society, do not realize is that autism is not a ‘disease’; it is just a difficulty that can be handled and these children are capable of living a normal life. They have every right to go to proper mainstream schools; they just need little extra help. Parents are mostly correct about noticing any developmental delays or problems although they may not know the exact name or the intensity. So never, just never ignore even the slightest problem but that does not mean that you have to be hyper sensitive. It just means that you should be aware.

Autism is a harsh reality and this happens to people – people who are dear to you, who you love. We will never want our kids to go through this but this is something we cannot control. We do not have to be over cautious but we have to learn to deal with it day in and day out. Autism certainly is not a one day fight; it is a lifelong battle but you can prepare your child to fight it with all the grit and determination. Just don’t give up, just don’t accept that you can’t change anything because you can. Who knows it better than you, a parent who fights all odds, passes through hours of labor and still has the ability to give love and affection to that one person who matters the most-the extension of your own life.

A Chill but a Nip

Tags

lessons of life, parenting, rush hour traffic

Standing by the side of the pavement of a busy road with vacuum in eyes, my heart pounded so hard that it threatened to rip apart the ribs and fall on the ground. I frantically looked around, ran a few steps towards the open space just in front of the market complex that housed a good coffee shop and number of other stores to handle daily needs and then looked back at the speedily moving cars blinding with their headlights, he was nowhere to be seen.  It was rush hour traffic with one car not leaving even breathing space for the other. Minutes before we were parking the car by the roadside approved parking area to cut grocery shopping off my list of To-dos for the weekend and I got out shifting the lone cycle to another safe place which was blocking the four wheeler parking space. By the time I returned back, he had disappeared.

My son, all of one and half years old, had vanished when I was busy moving the cycle and my husband craning his neck outside the window to avoid bumping into the adjacent car.  How he opened the door, how he climbed out, how the disdain plain day turned into horror seeing the seat empty happened in a flash. We looked at each other and could only ask, “Where is he?”

I, in my unassuming hurry, had just pushed the door enough to touch the hinges but didn’t close it. It was not difficult for him to push it and get out.

My mind raced even faster than my heart. “What if he ran towards the road?”, “What if he started walking on the pavement and just moved out of the vision?”, “Did I hear a car screech to a halt?” It was hard to shake off all the fears and I was literally shivering.  My husband came closer and said, “I will go look towards the road and you go towards the open space. Ok?” He knew I would be unable to handle the road, the glare of lights asking me how on the earth I lost sight of him. The fear of losing him, the fear of looking at the end of the world straight in the eye was written in bold letters on my face.

I nodded my head and as I ran towards the long stretch ahead of the coffee shop, I loudly announced almost bursting in tears, “Has anyone seen a boy? A little boy… please … He is wearing a dangri .. please help me…”

The words almost drowning in the tears hazing my vision. I never thought I would ever in my life utter these words. He didn’t know how to speak and he wouldn’t be able to find his way back to me or to my husband.  There was a dark street just round the corner. He was not big enough to fear the dark. What if he had walked into that long forgotten alley or if someone just scooped him up seeing him alone and walked away?  The startled passersby gave me puzzled looks, some wondering what I was saying, some looking around if they could sniff even a speck of that boy – a footprint, a sandal, the flailing arms, some judgmental on how a mother can do that and some outrightly ignoring the disheveled state and the intensity of words that were ringing in my head again and again.

“I just saw a baby running there?” a college going boy with a backpack on his shoulders pointed out towards the fag end not far from the alley. I rushed past him taking cue from his raised finger and there – I saw him standing with his hands in his mouth and head tilted up to have a better view of the tall strangers walking past him.  He looked far from anxious, bemused even. As soon as our eyes met, a familiar smile broke on his face, the one I was used to seeing when he would find his favorite toy among the pile he had painstakingly searched.

I had found what I was looking for too and it felt that suddenly my lungs started working again, the air a little chilly but with just the right nip. By now, my husband had already searched the road side and was sure that our son couldn’t have gone towards the heavily crowded road or else the whole traffic would have come to a halt. He couldn’t lose his mind, at least not when I was spilled all over. He found us together staring at each other; he walked fast paced towards our son taking him into his arms while I was just standing there wiping the sweat beads on my forehead and gulping the guilt. He patted his back and told him while resting his tiny face on his broad shoulder, “Its fine!” and then he looked at me and said, “Really, it is!”

February Nostalgia

Tags

February, first blog anniversary, nostalgia

When I was born, I didn’t know that I would end up writing about it. When my father and mother decided to take the reins of my life in their own hands, I didn’t know it would make a winner post out of it.  When I got my first red cycle, I didn’t know that it would actually be something to go back to and write about it.  When I fought with my husband and forced him into choosing between me and his second wife, I didn’t know that it will make you laugh too much. And when a certain mosquito made my life hell that it would be something to make a note of.  I didn’t know that I would be here writing about all the experiences and sharing with people who I just know by names, sometimes pseudo names, and have never met them.  I didn’t know that perfect strangers would come by and comment and criticize and most importantly would find it worth reading and saying something about it. I didn’t know that some of these perfect strangers would turn out to be great friends as well.

I always thought blogging was insane. How can anyone keep writing for so long and why people go and read about why someone messed up his or her dishwasher, or somebody’s baby threw a tantrum and someone totally unknown has an anniversary. That was until I myself started doing it and found you all. Not many know that I had a failed attempt at blogging in 2008 when my son was just a few months old and I could sneak out just for few minutes between his first soiled nappy and the second.  I admit – I was too exhausted to sit in front of the laptop and write something rather than just collapse on the floor.

But this time when I came back owing to constant fingering by my hubby, I wanted to be in it for a long haul. Well, I have made it for a year and I am happy that you all have stood by me during this journey.

I mean it when I say Thank you –  really a big one for making me a part of this growing community and hearing me out with heart.  If it hadn’t been for those first five followers (if you bar an alternate email id to create one follower and hubby who anyways promised to stick with me through hell and heaven ), I am sure I wouldn’t have been blogging.

So I want to introduce you to those first five:

Bhojinder Pal : This guy does not blog, is not very active on FB or any other social networking site, is a diligent coder I met on my first outing in corporate world and is a very genuine person. He was the one who commented on my every single post and if not commented, at least liked it when I was writing posts in self-doubt. He came, he stood by and when he saw the base was building, he slowly retreated. Thanks so much Bhojinder for all those likes, comments and support.

Shivani: A dear friend who blogs at Massala Chai, she is one of the reasons why I got back to blogging. The blog is little dormant now but I am sure she will be back with full force and with all the wonderful posts she always wrote that were inspirational for me.

Visha: Many who visit my blog know her already. She blogs at Zack and Visha and she is the first person who actually visited my blog and started following me and not someone who commented back after I commented on their blog. So my first unknown blogger friend who followed me. Thanks Visha for being there right from the start.

Tita: Tita blogs at http://titabuds.com/  . The middle child, middle aged, middle brow girl was a treat to be around when she visited my blog for the first time. She always have something interesting to say and when she started following me, that too among the first five, I realized that an Indian blog does not necessarily mean that only Indians will come and read you.

Kismitoffeebar:  She blogs at Kismitoffeebar. We had the same wordpress template then and we developed camaraderie along the way that I thought was rare to have with people you don’t know personally. So Thanks Toffee for not only sticking around but also resurrecting my faith in friendships beyond just awkward Hi and Hello

Apart from first blog anniversary, February has many other reasons that make it special – My birthday that will come up in few days, BlogAdda picking me up as Notable Newbie, the build-up that happened 13 years ago when my hubby, then my senior, started dropping hints to take me out, getting back in touch with a very very dear friend with whom all connection was lost.  And there is still half of the month left. I love you February

The Red Cycle

Tags

life's little surprises, Nostaglia, parenting

Photo credit: hooptedoodle.typepad.com

I was leaning as usual on my books to make sense of the gibberish my teacher taught me when suddenly the doorbell rang. My dad was standing on the other side of the mesh door with a clumsily wrapped thing that peeked out teasing me. He was never a good wrapper of gifts and I believe the shopkeeper who did the job this time was not any good too. The jet black wheels, red shiny handles and the upside down ‘U’ of the molded steel bar holding the long banana seat peeked out of the Mickey Mouse gift paper enough to make me jump up and down even before letting my father inside the house. He knew Mickey Mouse was my favorite cartoon character so he must have looked around to find the perfect wrapping paper too to make my 6^th birthday entirely mine. He must have remembered the disappointing eyes with which I always accepted the old books, the old shirts, the old toys passed on as a legacy from my elder brother to me.

This one, this red cycle, was mine.  It had a long red sliding seat, he told me, could be adjusted when I would grow taller. It had support wheels, he warned me, would have to go one by one as I had to learn how to ride this beautiful thing.  It had a tinkling bell, he stated in a matter of fact tone, need not be rung all the time.  And all this while I was wondering how I will show this off to my friends and make them envious. Now I know that was the first time I had fallen in love.

I treated that cycle the same way, as my lover. I polished it, took it out only to walk with me hand in hand(le) and instead of the small garage that we had, I used to park it near my bed. I used to ride it only to make my parents happy and as soon as they were out of vision, I would get down and walk along. This continued for six months when my father decided that he had to play the villain and pull me out of this pink cloud of romance. He, before the morning sun hit the window pane of my room, removed its one support wheel and ordered my brother to take charge of teaching me how to ride it. Did I tell you how much I cried seeing my three legged friend suddenly turning into a two legged beast that I had to learn how to control?

I found a way out. I started to put all my weight towards the side which had the support wheel and I was comfortable. It was only a matter of two days before my clever act of defiance caved in the middle like a badly baked cake and the second support wheel also found its place in the cluttered end of the garage. I was left with no choice but to learn how to balance. That was my first step to know what an idiot I was to resist this change.  What a wonderful feeling it was to see my brother’s and my father’s figures turn into blurs as I moved farther and farther. I glided with this cycle and now no corner of the world seemed inaccessible. My world, of course, was my colony I lived in.

And his world, of course, is the apartment complex we live in. My son is as defiant as me and has exactly used the same techniques to ward off the evil of controlling his friend. But I know, like my father, that no matter how much we resist change it usually is for the better. He is learning to break free, he is learning to find his own paths and as I cut the umbilical chord slowly and steadily while telling him how to maintain the balance, now I know what my father must have felt turning into a blur in my life.