BENGALURU: In 2004 I came to Bangalore to become an engineer. My college was in Basavanagudi and I was staying in Hoskerehalli. The city’s public transport wasn’t
its speciality so my parents insisted that I buy a motorbike to travel around, much to my chagrin, for it was a nightmare to drive in Bangalore traffic. My Bengali friends had the opposite experience with parents and motorbikes. Bengali parents have cultivated a certain chronic paranoia about driving around in a harmless motorbike.
While most of them resigned to their fate, my classmate Partho Ghosh chose to veto his father’s verdict. The moment he got a job, he took a loan and bought himself a racing bike.
He kept it spotlessly clean, took it to servicing once every month, added newer and fancier headlights every Diwali and basically treated it like it was his younger brother.
Even after four years he never let his parents get a scent of it. Whenever his parents visited Bangalore, he simply put it out of his head the fact that he owned a bike.
His close friends had been given strict instructions never to utter the word ‘bike’ in front of his parents.
This morning when I visited him in his Fraser Town apartment, he was sitting by the window. When he saw me he said, “Bike!” I knew that his father had come down from
Durgapur to stay with him for a few days. I immediately guessed. The story, however, was a bit more complicated.
A year ago, Partho hired a cook, Jayant Das, who started off well but began to wag his tail. After three months of putting up with Jayant’s cockiness, Partho told him a week back that he would be relieved of his duties as soon as his father returned to Durgapur. Bad idea.
I can tell you in my own words the rueful tale of my unfortunate friend but let me share his exact words, in order that you may experience the anguish first-hand:
“You know that baba came over last week, right? I told that swine Jayant that he should leave after baba returns. When baba was here, Jayant was super well-behaved. Last evening, I went to drop baba to the station and when we were at the main gate,
Jayant was standing there, next to my bike.
“Baba walked up to the bike and Jayant told him that he was leaving. Baba gave a fifty rupee tip to Jayant. He took money, shoved it into his pant pocket and then took out my bike keys.
He confidently sat down on my bike and put the key into the ignition and-look at the cheek of that bastard-he asked baba, ‘Uncle, how do you like my bike?’ When baba smiled and said that it was fabulous, he thanked him, started the bike and rode away, leaving me in a... never mind. At least baba didn’t find out.”