On a second childhood and a moving tribute to a father - see submission below for the GOA SUDHAROP GOAN SENIORS E-book. Please send your submissions to [EMAIL PROTECTED] Thanks, George
*********************************************************** The Cycle of Life by Edwin Fernandes Growing up in the Bandra of yore was similar to the life Richmal Cromptons William Brown led, never a dull moment. Our house on the BJ Road was smack opposite the sea. There were no obnoxious auto rickshaws those days and traffic snarls were unheard of! The most common mode of transport was the humble bicycle. Those days working people would cycle to Bandra station and park their cycles in a paid cycle stand. So healthy and pollution free. We had a fairly large compound to cycle. I remember when in later years, the neighbouring cottage was pulled down and a large galaxy of a building came up in its place, a certain Salman Khan on his chopper bike also used to strut his stuff in our compound. As youngsters we envied our elders for their cycles. We could barely afford to hire cycles, although it cost just the grand sum of .25paise per hour! We never had pocket money, so we ran errands, did housework, homework etc just to earn that princely sum. You see in those days, there was no demonstration effect. Today parents buy toys and other goodies for their children mainly because other children have them. Obviously ones child cannot be left in the lurch to suffer from a complex. In our time if you wanted a cycle you jolly well had to earn it. Ironically the expression there are no free lunches bandied about so loosely today, was more apt in the days gone by! I learnt to cycle in the 5th standard, the hard way, falling off the hired cycle innumerable times, knees and elbows constantly being bloodied and bruised. Oh for the protective gear viz helmets, knee and elbow guards of today! It was my burning desire to own a cycle. Thats it. No other wants or needs. The age of WAP enabled CDMA mobiles; P4 PCs and other fancy gizmos were still in the realm of legerdemain. With great trepidation, I approached my parents and stammered my request. Mummy like all practical mothers straight away said I was too young to ride on the road. I argued my case like a seasoned advocate, pleading, reassuring and even promised I would never ask for anything for the rest of the long life that lay ahead of me, with all the conviction that I could muster! My Dad (who worked in the merchant navy) was an old hand in man management. He understood that unless you put a value on something, one never really appreciates it. He patiently waited for my eloquence to run dry and assured me that I would get a cycle, on condition that I stood among the first three in my class. You could knock me down with a feather. To someone who who was more comfortable wielding a hockey stick than a fountain pen, this was hitting below the belt. What further proof did one need that the world was just not fair to children? Shades of William Brown again! Life went on. Somehow I never let go of the dream. In the 8th standard in the year 1968, I finally achieved my goal. What a momentous occasion it was! I painstakingly composed a letter (not email), to my Dad who was in England at that time. Thereafter I spent the days and months eagerly waiting my Dads arrival. I wanted him to accompany me to buy that Hercules cycle. Finally came the news that Dads ship was to dock in Bombay. One unforgettable evening, an ambassador taxi screeched to a stop outside our house. On the carrier was a bulky looking bundle wrapped in canvas. Dad stepped out of the cab, resplendent in his smart navy uniform. He waved to me and like a true blue navy man, wasted no time dilly dallying, coming straight to the point, he hollered, Will you give me a hand with this cycle? You could knock me down with a feather, once again. My cycle, my very own cycle! The cycle exceeded my wildest dreams. I expected a Hercules or Atlas, the reigning icons of the day. What Dad bought me was a genuine Raleigh cycle from Nottingham. The military green cycle had a dynamo, a headlamp, a revolving bell and would you believe it, 3 gears! Now those were gadgets none of my pals had. I was over the moon. My Mum tells me that day I had only sandwiches for dinner, while cycling of course! That cycle served me well. I cycled to school; picnics to Aarey Milk colony, National Park, Tulsi Lake. I cycled to my Centre for my final SSC exams. I cycled all four years to a Bandra College. I won slow cycle races; dodge cycle races galore on it. I was only barred from fast racing, as the cycle had gears. Oh, my Raleigh served me well. It was almost an extension of me. Then I joined a Bank, settled down and eventually shifted base to Juhu. The cycle remained in Bandra. Occasionally when I visited Mummy on the weekends, I would take it for a small spin. Otherwise it languished under the staircase near the meter room, collecting dust. Over the years, as I moved on in life, I acquired a scooter, a motorcycle, a car. Eventually the scooter was sold, the motorcycle and car were upgraded. The cycle was gradually fading from memory. I also managed to complete two postings out of Mumbai. The years flew. One day Mummy called to ask whether I was still interested in my cycle as the raddiwallah was harassing her to donate or sell it to him. That did it. I told Mum to hold on. Within minutes I was on my way to Bandra. I pulled the trusty cycle out of its mothballs. I felt surges of emotion coursing through my veins. It was as though the cycle and I had forged an inseparable bond. I unceremoniously shooed the startled raddiwalla away. No way was I selling my beloved cycle to him. I wasnt ready to sever the umbilical cord, not just yet. I dusted the cycle almost reverentially, walked it to the nearest cycle shop. The cycle was not the only thing pumped up! I heaved my now large frame on that familiar seat and the old magic was at work instantly. I huffed and puffed all the way to Juhu. It was like Karen Carpenter sang, yesterday once more. On reaching home, the watchman opened the gate, quite bemused to see a senior Bank Officer on a cycle. He looked at my watery eyes and politely enquired whether some dust got in. I nodded vaguely. Let him think what he wanted. This was my very own delirious moment in the sun; I wanted to savour the experience for as long as possible, without the bother of having to answer inane queries. I did a splendid paint job on my cycle. It has almost been restored to its original glory. Every night I cycle in the compound much to the amusement of the youngsters and my colleagues, who are convinced my second childhood has dawned, a bit prematurely. Sometimes I go for a spin to Juhu beach. Its rejuvenating and invigorating. We are now in April 2006. That makes my trusted cycle a cool 38 years. Truly old is gold; that applies to the machine and the rider as well! They certainly dont make them like this anymore! Dad, its been more than a decade since you sailed into the blue yonder but the great lesson on values you taught me, lives on. Thanks. _______________________________________________ Goanet mailing list Goanet@lists.goanet.org http://lists.goanet.org/listinfo.cgi/goanet-goanet.org
