My Pink Cycle
I have been, or should I say, had been feeling unwell. Health issues tend to impact me mentally and emotionally. They make me feel every year I have lived. Think creaky joints, think sluggish limbs, think cranky mood and the general feeling of I-hate-this-world-and-I-don’t-know-why-I-even-try . Yup, I dragged this aged body around moaning and grumbling. The boys dug trenches and jumped into them, waiting for the mood to improve. It did not. By the time I got home from work, my legs hurt and the soles of my feet burnt. Cooking, normally a pleasant activity, felt like a huge burden. Just standing in the kitchen was painful.
Visions of wheelchairs and stretchers loomed large in the mind.
Yep, I am a drama queen.
Not once did the thought occur that I should, perhaps, fix an appointment with a doctor.
Two days back, the younger son took charge. No, he did not take me to a doctor. This is our family, as whacky as we can get. Normal and sensible thoughts do not occur to us. Instead he made me bunk office and rest. When he figured my mood was as human as it could get he said, “I want to start cycling Ma, so shall we go look at some cycles?”
I needed to do some Diwali shopping so I agreed, provided he accompany me to get Diwali stuff.
The cycle shop was quite an eye-opener. Back when I was a girl and I cycled, we had pretty basic equipment. The parent hauled us to a shop where tyres hung by hooks on the roof. Bodies of cycles, black with a splash of silver paint were stacked to one side. We selected a body, the wheels were fixed on it. We got the bell and carrier fixed. and maybe hung a basket. The parent haggled all the while and we whined for a front basket, a bicycle pump and fancy shiny thingumijigs to fix on the wheels. In the pretty sedentary world we live in, I thought I’d see more of that shit.
I was so wrong.
The cycle shop was three stories high and stuffed with cycles in as many colours as we can get. Green, yellow, blue, red, pink. More about the pink later …
The second born selected 3 cycles while I picked up the jaw that had fallen to the floor in surprise as I stared at the sheer variety. I should not have bothered because it hit the floor again when the shop owner told us the prices. Dear reader, I come from an era of bicycles costing Rs.300/- and if your parent was feeling generous, he/she would buy you a Rs.500/- one which came with splashy red carrier and a bicycle pump! I stared at one that came in dark purple with thick tyres which cost (gasp) Rs.38,000/-
I think I need to go out more often. Sometimes my brain and worldly gyan is stuck in circa 1968 or thereabouts.
I wandered about the shop and was completely unprepared for what was to hit me next.
The shop keeper said, “Madam your son is calling you upstairs.” Till then I had not realised he had another floor full of bikes. I climbed up and he led me up yet another staircase. On the second and third floor, the place turned distinctly floral. Bikes in pink, powder pink, blush rose pink, hot pink, mauve, the lightest purple and one tiny number which actually had a pink body with yellow daisies on it.
I burst into uncontrollable giggles as I whispered to the son, “I have never seen an entire floor of cycles issuing such an open invitation to rape! What’s with this gender specific coloured equipment really?”
I shall pause here. I know that the internet is full of people ready to take offense. Please do. Knock yourself out objecting, telling me how politically incorrect I am. I will not defend myself or stop you.
Done?
Shall we move on?
The son gave me an evil grin and said, “I called you up here to get a cycle for you.”
“No way,” I said backing away. “I am old and fat, in case you had not noticed.”
The shopkeeper smiled and said, “Madam you can do it. Anyone who can climb three flights of stairs can cycle.”
“My 55th birthday is done and gone,” I told him.
He looked surprised (bless him) thought a bit and said, “Phir bhi, you can do it. I know you can.”
Son said, “At least get on it.”
I sheepishly did. That bike was to small for me. My bones too stiff. I am old and fat. He did not let me back out. We tried one and then another. All the time both son and shop owner kept up a steady stream of flattery. We walked downstairs with me telling son sternly that I tried the bike at his insistence but won’t cycle. Pish! At my age????
He ignored me and requested for two cycles that felt comfortable to be brought down.
“I am not carrying enough money,”I protested.
He went to an ATM and brought money.
“It even has a pink basket!” I wailed. I had to make a stand for gender neutrality. It was ignored.
Please ignore Baron who is photo-bombing here.
The son wanted me to take it out for a spin. I dug my heels in. I was not going to make a spectacle out of myself. What if I fell?
“What if after it comes home, I am not able to ride it?” I wondered.
“You will. Otherwise, OLX hai na,” he replied.
By this time the roomful of customers and shop boys were staring at us with grins on their faces. I shut up and tried to look inconspicuous just like a person who was not buying a baby pink cycle with a pink basket. I only opened my mouth once to insist on a gel seat cover in blue to counter the deluge of pink.
The evil son countered that by buying me a pink and white cycle helmet.
I beat a hasty retreat and sat in the car while he arranged for the two cycles to be delivered home.
It rained that day … The next morning was really pleasant. The sons came downstairs eager to see the tamasha. Cycles were taken outside, both of them. I stared at my pink number feeling intimidated. The sons looked at me with huge grins.
“No way,”I said. “And definitely not in my pink pajamas.”
“It is early and there is no one out,” said the sons. “The pajamas are perfect.”
With them I never can win, can I?.
It was a shaky start, but in the past couple of days I have ventured further and further. And guess what? I have no health issues and my mood is much better.
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