My New Bike!

Dear dedicated reader,

I have acquired a shiny, beautiful red bicycle.

Ever since I arrived here, I have wanted a bicycle. Despite the fact that the driving here is at best erratic, the country roads here are generally empty and I can only get so far on foot. Though I know there is not so much to explore, still, the promise of freedom from my immediate surroundings was enough to keep my cycling dreams alive.

I have been slowly doing my research via my students. A number of them have bicycles, and from gradual questioning I deduced where a bike could be found and how much I should pay. When I mentioned my cycling aspirations to the director of the Foundation he didn’t seem opposed, and this encouraged my fledgling dream to grow into the full force of action.

Last weekend, Melissa and I ventured out to the nearest town, Bardoli, as we are sometimes wont to do. After checking up on my phone which is in the process of being unlocked, buying some hairclips and (to our delight) discovering Bardoli’s one and only Baskin and Robbins, we found ourselves looking for shelter from the rain. It was then that I saw the cycle shop.

A shop in India can mean any number of things: a proper glass windowed building with shelves upon which wares have been neatly arranged for perusal by a shopper, a room that opens up into the street with a counter and good stashed behind like medicine and batteries at a gas station or a garage of sorts with commodities hanging every which way and piled high to the ceiling. This bike shop was of the last sort, with bikes piled this way and that, making it so difficult to enter the garage like structure that Melissa and I merely waited under the edge of the tin roof to be noticed by the men repairing cycles left and right.

Finally, a man came to me and said, “Bolo!” which in this particular situation basically meant “Tell me what you want!”

“I…uh… need a bike,” I said in hesitating Hindi. I wasn’t exactly sure what the procedure would be here, as I’ve never even bought a bike from a proper bike shop in the US.

“Ladies cycle?” He said gruffly, after I repeated myself.

“Er, yes, for me,” I replied.

He yelled something to someone over his shoulder and a thin man scurried to bring out a beautiful red one speed bike with hand brakes and a cute little bell on the handle bars. I looked at Melissa.

“I mean, that’s pretty much perfect, right?” I asked her. It was truly a gorgeous bike.

“It looks good to me,” she said, admiringly.

It felt so impulsive, but the next thing I knew, I was asking the man how I could get this bike back to Kadod with no car, and he insisted that we could take it back in an autorickshaw for merely 80 rupees. How we were to fit Melissa, myself and the bike in was a mystery to me, but one that was soon solved as I saw how they were preparing to load the bike in and tie it at a cross angle in the back of the auto.

“One last thing,” I asked them, “Do you know where I can find a helmet?”

“A helmet?” They asked me with a funny look on their faces. It might have been amusement.

“Uh, yes,” I made a motion like I was putting something on my head. Not even motorcyclists wear helmets here, so the it’s not so strange that the concept was foreign to two bike dealers.

“One minute,” they said. I thought my luck was just too good. A bicycle and a helmet? Unbelievable!

After a few moments of waiting, the thin man who had brought out my cycle turned up again and pushed two round pieces of plastic with straps attached into my hand.

I looked at the owner questioningly.

“Helmets,” he said gruffly by way of explanation. I turned the pieces of plastic over in my hand. Oblong shaped, they were clearly meant for children. On the inside was printed, “THIS HELMET IS NOT FOR SAFETY PURPOSE AND IS A TOY.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said. Then he loaded us into the auto and they tied the bike on. The ride back to Kadod was an exhilarating one. I finally had my bike! However, despite my elation, there was a part of me that was cringing in anticipation of the scene that I knew it would cause when on our return. I was right to worry.

As soon as we reached the temple, the autorickshaw began to accumulate children, looking at the red cycle with awe. “Miss!” They asked me. “Is it for me?”

I laughed. “No, it’s for me!” I said with embarrassment.

They ran alongside as the auto slowed to approach the gates of the school. “You can ride a bicycle, teacher?” They asked in disbelief. I chuckled and nodded.

As they opened the gate to allow the auto to enter to unload the bike, I checked and saw that the principal’s car was indeed in the driveway. I had hoped that perhaps the principal’s family would not be home when we got back; it would make the process of at least unloading the bike slightly less… spectacular. They were still inside their house, so a little ray of hope was there that I could get the bike in without their seeing.

However, covert operations are not possible in my life here: as soon as we pulled in, all the hostel boys who were hanging around in the main courtyard came over and crowded around the auto, making it impossible for us to even get out.

“Ma’am! Ma’am! What is this cycle?” They yelled at me excitedly.

“It’s, uh, for me,” I said, my embarrassment increasing with every second of attention. The principal was sure to come out with all the commotion. The boys helped untie the strings holding the bicycle in place and helped me unload it. Melissa and I practically fell out of the back behind it.

As soon as I recovered my balance, I saw the principal standing on the porch, looking at the cycle, then at me. He made what I like to call the Indian “what-the-hell” gesture: a shaking of the upturned palm with index and middle finger pointed out, something like unscrewing an upside down jar.

“Uh, Melissa,” I said, “Can you take care of the auto while I take care of this situation?” She nodded understandingly.

I hurried up the walk towards the principal’s porch where his face still had that annoyed, questioning look.

“What is this?” He asked me as soon as I arrived.

“Uh, sir, it’s a cycle,” I said.

“But, why have you bought this?” He asked.

It was at this moment that I realized that it would be difficult for me to explain to him why I bought it. I couldn’t say “So that I can get away from here sometimes,” or “Sometimes it’s nice to have some alone time,” or simply “For some freedom” because any of those, from his perspective, wouldn’t be understandable. I was tongue-tied. Finally I found myself saying, in a meek voice, “For exercise?”

“But, we have so many cycles here,” he exclaimed. “We would have given you one.”

For a moment I felt foolish. But then I thought about how complicated it all was: how dependent we are on them, and how if I had asked them and they hadn’t had one they would have been obliged by the rules of hospitality to go find one and how even if I had asked them for one how long it might have taken before I could ride it and I just said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. But I can leave this one for the next people, so, it’s not so bad.”

“You have spent your money in vain,” he said. I felt terrible. A look of disappointment came across his face.

My face must have shown my discomfort because he suddenly said, “It’s all right. It’s all right.” He asked how much I paid and where I bought it and I told him and he said, more to himself than to me I think, that it was too late for us to take it back.

“I’m sorry,” I tried again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said with a smile.

I wasn’t really sorry, though, as terrible as that may seem. I was thinking about when I could take out my new cycle and ride it out of town.

Best,
Cat