For the last year or so , a small revolution of sorts has started in our colony .
People have taken to cycling . On the streets . It all started with an extremely energetic , driven and focussed army officer taking up cudgels against the unsightly rolls of fat accumulated around his midriff. It , as per his own admission , also was raising his blood pressure to "interventional" levels . In other words , he disliked eating his pills . Hence , cycle.
We shall call him Col T . He starts cycling at wee hours of the morning , when ordinary people are still negotiating the rickety path between REM and non REM phases of sleep. Pigeons watch him from inside slits of their closed eyelids , it is formidably dark , and the Granthi in the nearby Gurudwara , is yet to remove his wet footwear , at the entrance door.
The watchmen curse him , under their breath as he breezes past , speeding at tight turns .
His desire for speed , hampered during the daytime , by playing children , who display inexplicably suicidal behaviour by running right into the path of a speeding cycle ; by pet dogs , that wish to be petted; by staid matrons , walking and gossiping in two's and threes, corpulent enough to reduce a broad road to a minor gully.; not to mention fellow retirees , who wish to slow down the racing old man with an exuberantly cheery "Hello , Kiddan ?" (how are you ?) . Courtesy demands an answer , and a simple nod wont do . Interruptions . Hence, early morning .
Another contender is a former professor , who along with his wife , trundles along on two separate bikes . Pink for her , green for him . Hers has slender tyres , his are transplanted with monstrosities borrowed from a motorbike. For the first few weeks , they cycled sedately , charming the world with the sight of greying bonhomie , smiling at all , and conversing quietly . Then one day , she suddenly called it quits . "Excruciating back - ache "was quoted , and tut-tutting sympathy gained , as she joined the lowly ranks of gossipy matrons , much to her chagrin and their amusement.
The man , however , got himself a green track suit with matching helmet and knee pads , and decided to challenge the Colonel. Now , they both race . In two different directions . One clockwise , the other , anti clockwise . They meet at two different points of the colony , and breeze past each other , each loath to acknowledge the presence of the other.
The colonel , in his printed turban , long johns and shorts , the professor , in his leprechaunish get up ,long white hair and flowing grey beard , something out of fairy tale books .
One young lady in her 30s decided to join the fray too . She wears her incredibly long hair loose , and loves flowing garments . Needless to say , it hampers her movement . So , she squeaks slowly past , absorbing the air , conversing with doodhwalas and waving at all school kids waiting at sundry pick up points. She is visible and movie star-ish . People make a point to stand in their balconies to watch her cycle past , as they pretend to read newspapers or drink their milk tea.
A fat matron too , bought a bicycle . She cycles every morning and evening . She too ,began with flowing palazzos , till one of the legs of the offending garment was caught up in the revolving tyres . Now she wears a weird combo of t shirt ( a size too small), capris , knee caps , socks , and shoes , with payals . Yes , that's right . Payals . Those tinkly trinkets, worn at ankles, that tear holes into your socks , if you wear them outside . If you wear them on your skin , the tightness of your socks , and movement of your legs are likely to lacerate you badly.
Having forbidden ethnic wear , for practical reasons , this was the last vestige of tradition, which she could cling to .
Kids there are aplenty. A fat kid with Canadian accent , an NRI boy who does nothing but cycle around in circles , dawn to dusk ,"never enters the home " complains a disgruntled grandma. Apparently , forced to return from London , where his mother and older siblings still reside , after a messy divorce of his parents . He has decided he has nothing to do with his father or dadi , and their home.
The most dangerous thing one can encounter on the road , after sun down , is a bicycle, hastily abandoned in the middle of the road , by careless kids ; and entirely invisible to a heaving, panting , racing ,portly, middle aged woman with poor eyesight, which would describe me in my own feeble attempts at joining the "cycling revolution ". Albeit , after sun down , in dark solitude.
I once rammed into a bicycle , half the size of mine , and its tiny front trye entered the spokes of my bicycle , and stayed there , jammed , unable to move . The owner of the bicycle being as invisible as the bicycle itself , I dragged the duo , to the road side and was trying to dislodge one from the other , when the Colonel whizzed past . Wide eyed , flush faced , all he had to say was ,"Okay , so now we are riding two bicycles ,simultaneously , are we?"
People have taken to cycling . On the streets . It all started with an extremely energetic , driven and focussed army officer taking up cudgels against the unsightly rolls of fat accumulated around his midriff. It , as per his own admission , also was raising his blood pressure to "interventional" levels . In other words , he disliked eating his pills . Hence , cycle.
We shall call him Col T . He starts cycling at wee hours of the morning , when ordinary people are still negotiating the rickety path between REM and non REM phases of sleep. Pigeons watch him from inside slits of their closed eyelids , it is formidably dark , and the Granthi in the nearby Gurudwara , is yet to remove his wet footwear , at the entrance door.
The watchmen curse him , under their breath as he breezes past , speeding at tight turns .
His desire for speed , hampered during the daytime , by playing children , who display inexplicably suicidal behaviour by running right into the path of a speeding cycle ; by pet dogs , that wish to be petted; by staid matrons , walking and gossiping in two's and threes, corpulent enough to reduce a broad road to a minor gully.; not to mention fellow retirees , who wish to slow down the racing old man with an exuberantly cheery "Hello , Kiddan ?" (how are you ?) . Courtesy demands an answer , and a simple nod wont do . Interruptions . Hence, early morning .
Another contender is a former professor , who along with his wife , trundles along on two separate bikes . Pink for her , green for him . Hers has slender tyres , his are transplanted with monstrosities borrowed from a motorbike. For the first few weeks , they cycled sedately , charming the world with the sight of greying bonhomie , smiling at all , and conversing quietly . Then one day , she suddenly called it quits . "Excruciating back - ache "was quoted , and tut-tutting sympathy gained , as she joined the lowly ranks of gossipy matrons , much to her chagrin and their amusement.
The man , however , got himself a green track suit with matching helmet and knee pads , and decided to challenge the Colonel. Now , they both race . In two different directions . One clockwise , the other , anti clockwise . They meet at two different points of the colony , and breeze past each other , each loath to acknowledge the presence of the other.
The colonel , in his printed turban , long johns and shorts , the professor , in his leprechaunish get up ,long white hair and flowing grey beard , something out of fairy tale books .
One young lady in her 30s decided to join the fray too . She wears her incredibly long hair loose , and loves flowing garments . Needless to say , it hampers her movement . So , she squeaks slowly past , absorbing the air , conversing with doodhwalas and waving at all school kids waiting at sundry pick up points. She is visible and movie star-ish . People make a point to stand in their balconies to watch her cycle past , as they pretend to read newspapers or drink their milk tea.
A fat matron too , bought a bicycle . She cycles every morning and evening . She too ,began with flowing palazzos , till one of the legs of the offending garment was caught up in the revolving tyres . Now she wears a weird combo of t shirt ( a size too small), capris , knee caps , socks , and shoes , with payals . Yes , that's right . Payals . Those tinkly trinkets, worn at ankles, that tear holes into your socks , if you wear them outside . If you wear them on your skin , the tightness of your socks , and movement of your legs are likely to lacerate you badly.
Having forbidden ethnic wear , for practical reasons , this was the last vestige of tradition, which she could cling to .
Kids there are aplenty. A fat kid with Canadian accent , an NRI boy who does nothing but cycle around in circles , dawn to dusk ,"never enters the home " complains a disgruntled grandma. Apparently , forced to return from London , where his mother and older siblings still reside , after a messy divorce of his parents . He has decided he has nothing to do with his father or dadi , and their home.
The most dangerous thing one can encounter on the road , after sun down , is a bicycle, hastily abandoned in the middle of the road , by careless kids ; and entirely invisible to a heaving, panting , racing ,portly, middle aged woman with poor eyesight, which would describe me in my own feeble attempts at joining the "cycling revolution ". Albeit , after sun down , in dark solitude.
I once rammed into a bicycle , half the size of mine , and its tiny front trye entered the spokes of my bicycle , and stayed there , jammed , unable to move . The owner of the bicycle being as invisible as the bicycle itself , I dragged the duo , to the road side and was trying to dislodge one from the other , when the Colonel whizzed past . Wide eyed , flush faced , all he had to say was ,"Okay , so now we are riding two bicycles ,simultaneously , are we?"
