BENGALURU: They always say that life is a journey. What they forget to mention is that life is a set of smaller journeys within the larger one. Take the journey of yourself as a commuter, for example. It is a transformative journey that begins with a tricycle and ends in a car. And each of the phases in that journey shapes who you are.
My first vehicle was a cousin’s tricycle. He was two years older to me and so it was handed down to me. Even at that age, I remember feeling that the thing lacked real speed. It needed me to pedal to move forward, something that seemed completely counter-productive. Why wouldn’t I simply walk, then?
My first bicycle belonged to my sister. ‘Ladybird’ was its name and I learnt to ride it around Class 5. But once I got the hang of it, I would ride around the colony, imagining myself to be a hero rescuing my crush. The journey with the cycle ended in a couple of years. I was imagining myself to be in a cricket match for some reason and needed to steal a quick single. A scooter rammed into my wheel, and Ladybird left my life forever.
The next few years were spent as a pedestrian. Using autos and buses and local trains to get by, I learnt that life is a continuous process of suffering. Even the word – pedestrian – signifies something ordinary, sub-par. A pedestrian on Indian roads has to believe in God. That’s how you cross the road – look to the right, then to the left, then right again, and pray to god, then cross the road.
If you manage to get to the other side the same person, there are cows, bulls and dogs to deal with.
The next step of my journey was on a two-wheeler. It had its advantages – I could leave when I wished to. But that was about it.
For, the life of a bike rider is hardly a walk in the park. To begin with, the names of bikes seem rather intimidating. Passion, Glamour, Splendour and even disturbing ones like Eliminator. When I walked into the showroom to check out a bike called ‘Hunk’, the salesman wouldn’t even show it to me!
As a bike rider, you feel like you’ve joined the video game called Indian roads, but you’re only at Level 1. Your commute is determined by bigger players like truck drivers, car owners, and public buses. You often find yourself behind a truck carrying large rods, wondering what the purpose of it all is. Or stuck in a traffic jam next to a bus, hoping the gentleman sitting by the window doesn’t chew paan.
But in the recent past, I have been meaning to buy a car. And my perspective on roads has changed.
I can’t stand pedestrians – why do they walk so slowly? I understand it’s called a zebra crossing. But would they cross quickly if it was called a Horse Crossing? And bikers are impossible to stand either – zipping in and out of traffic like they’re extras in the latest Dhoom movie. I understand life is suffering, but one needs real courage to ride a two-wheeler in India.
But I know this phase won’t last too long either. I will get probably get tired of the pollution and inflation, and go back to public transport. As it says in the Bhagwad Gita, it’s all an unending cycle.