I learned to ride a bicycle on my father’s large bicycle – one that I could only ride “half-paddle,” since I couldn’t sit on the seat. The bicycle was heavy and tall. My father had bought it second-hand in excellent condition from a Border Security Force (BSF) staff member who had just been transferred out of town. The “weight” of its paramilitary origins made it difficult for a young me to manage, but it also meant the bicycle survived the many falls it had to endure as I learned to ride.
My father accompanied me on the first day and explained how to learn cycling. After that, he let me figure things out on my own. That was his way letting me figure out if I really wanted something.
Whenever the bicycle was lying unused at home, I would take it out and walk it across to the playground diagonally opposite our quarters. For several days, possibly weeks, I kept trying to learn how to ride that big, heavy bicycle from the side, pedalling half-paddle, without being able to sit on the seat.
One day, after I had finally learned to ride it, my father saw me cycling half-paddle. I think he felt I had earned a bicycle of my own. He told me he would buy me a smaller one – brand new. We planned a trip to the only bicycle shop in our town. I was excited about having my own bicycle.
But, around that time, the first Gulf War had begun, when the United States went to war to free Kuwait from Iraq. Missiles were being fired several thousand miles away. And, much like today, long-distance transportation had slowed and stopped. When we visited the bicycle shop, the shopkeeper told us he had no bicycles in stock and that new deliveries had stopped. He placed the order anyway and asked us to return after a few days.
After two futile visits, he must have felt some sympathy for me. He told us that he wasn’t sure when the deliveries would start. He decided to assemble a bicycle for me using spare parts from two differently coloured bicycles that were lying in his shop.
And, so I ended up with a brand-new bicycle, with a frame made up of two different colours. I was simply thrilled to have my own bicycle. To me, the two colours looked like a special new design. I rode that bicycle for 9 years and sold it off in working condition when I moved out of town.
I was reminded of this recently because of the ongoing tensions involving the United States, Israel and Iran. Just like back then, there is a discussion about long-distance transportation and deliveries for non-essential goods being slowed down or stopped in some places. That war lasted around forty days but had a noticeable impact even in small towns like ours. Wars are not good. No matter where it happens. But, in the middle of adversity, odd incidents like the birth of my two-coloured bicycle happen.
Somewhere, perhaps, another child is waiting for a bicycle that might arrive in two colours. He just doesn’t know it yet.
Avishek Gupta 