My dad used to have a bicycle. Back in the 1990s, those big cycles were like giants on the streets of India. For me, as a little child then, they seemed enormous, all shiny and sturdy. Dad would drop me off at school in a few mornings, especially when I missed the school bus. He would casually say, “Come on dear!”, while taking out the bicycle and kicking the stand with a satisfying clang, without a second thought. Being short, I would be lifted up to the seat. His hands, rough and big, wrapped around my soft waist as he lifted me up to seat me on the backseat. I could feel the toughness of his grip.
As we rode along, I would cling to him, a little scared to hold him. The seat was hard, and the roads were not great; every pothole made my back ache, and I eagerly awaited the end of the ride.
Talking about those cycles, the back seats were usually designed for carrying loads or stacks of grass. It’s not actually a seat, just a metallic frame. You would often see a little seat rigged up on the long rod between the main seat and the handle, a makeshift perch for carrying children. But strangely, my father’s cycle never had one of those extra seats; he mostly rode alone. Back then, it was always him and his bicycle. Honestly, I did not fancy the journey much, except for burying my face in my dad’s back and avoiding the surroundings.
