Thursday, November 21, 2024

Riding Through Time


The Curious Chronicles of Cycles

Philipose Vaidyar

In a small hillside town in Kerala, fifty years ago, bicycles were the unsung heroes of daily life. They were more than just a means of transport—they were symbols of freedom and independence, carrying dreams and responsibilities alike over dirt paths and winding lanes. For many, owning a bicycle was a mark of pride, a modest luxury not every household could afford, yet an essential companion for those who did. These two-wheeled marvels were the common man’s faithful steed, tirelessly bridging distances, connecting lives, and simplifying daily struggles.

As a child, I would often stop at the sound of a metallic clink from a passing bicycle bell. It wasn’t just a sound but a melody that spoke of motion and possibility, a promise of journeys yet to be taken. The rhythmic squeak of the wheels, the occasional skid on a dusty road—all seemed to tell a story of freedom I could only imagine, a world of adventure just out of reach but irresistibly inviting. It was a simpler time, where even the hum of a bicycle chain carried the charm of a song unsung, weaving itself into the fabric of everyday life.



The Cycles of Life

My father owned a full-sized bicycle, a giant to my eight-year-old self. When he is not out, it rested regally on the veranda, its black frame gleaming in the midday sun, a tax tag from the Panchayat, a fixed yellow tin tag with black letters and a number, secured to any visible nut on the body. That tag, renewed every six months, was a ticket to legitimacy. Cycle inspectors emerged at times on roads, ready to pounce on anyone riding without a license. The fines they levied could buy a week’s worth of groceries, and yet the bicycle was worth the risk.

I was too short to ride it properly, but the pull of its allure was too strong to resist. Baby, one of my elder cousins, who visited our home, once, became my mentor at least for that day. He told me the art of one-sided pedaling—perching on the left, one leg on the pedal, and the other skimming the ground for balance. My classroom was our fine, cow-dung-plastered courtyard, and the compound, a maze of tree roots and loose stones that added layers of challenge to the learning process.

When my father wasn’t home, I would sneak the bicycle out. With the seat under my arm and my little legs spinning the pedals, I’d wobble my way around the yard. The crashes were inevitable, and the scars on my knees became a badge of honor among my friends. I felt triumphant the first time I cycled down the mud path, to the panchayat road to our paddy fields. A kilometer felt like a grand journey, the wind against my face like applause from an unseen audience.

But cycling was more than a skill—it became my companion in life’s journeys. I carried groceries from the market, bundles of gatherings from the fields, and even messages between neighbors. Yet, ironically, I never cycled to school. Back then, the sight of a student on a bicycle was almost unheard of; bicycles were for trips for tasks and work, not education.

As years passed, my connection to the bicycle deepened. I learned to fix its chain when it slipped off the crank wheels, patch up punctures with tools my father kept, and even dismantle and repaint it when the frame grew dull. By the time I was a teenager, the cycle was an extension of myself—a symbol of resilience, resourcefulness, and the joys of simple living. During the Christmas season, I even tried fixing tiny stars and lighting them up using the cycle's dynamo.



Mr. Bicycle

Decades later, bicycles continued to weave stories, like the one involving a missionary in a remote Maharashtrian village. In those days, motorbikes were coveted treasures, but for most missionaries, bicycles were the lifeline. This particular couple had a faithful companion in their eight-year-old cycle, which they used tirelessly to travel miles for their ministry. They visited families, shared the gospel in the local dialect, and fostered unity among their small community.

When the cycle started demanding frequent repairs, the missionary wrote to the organization for permission to buy a new one. A few letters and replies went back and forth, with carbon copies duly sent, and weeks passed in patient waiting. Finally, the reply came—a curt refusal.

“I’ve used a cycle for 15 years at home,” the administrator wrote. “You can maintain yours longer.”

Disheartened but undeterred, the missionary and his wife devised a clever solution. They applied for a new cycle in her name, reasoning that it would sidestep bureaucratic hurdles. Two weeks later, a check arrived, and the village welcomed a shiny new bicycle. The old one, meanwhile, leaned against the wall of their hut, gathering rust and stories.


Years later, when I saw that rusted bicycle during a visit, it spoke volumes. It was more than a discarded vehicle—it was a testament to perseverance, leadership, and the unspoken hierarchies that often define human interactions. I pondered the questions it raised:

  • Do we truly hear the needs of those we lead?
  • Is leadership about wielding authority, or is it about service?
  • What impressions do we leave on the hearts of those around us?

 

The Bell That Rang in Wayanad

The hills of Wayanad have their own rhythm, a mix of misty mornings and bustling markets. It was here that I met Biju, the leader of a small NGO dedicated to empowering marginalized communities. In fact, I had been invited by Biju to create a video documentary on his work in Wayanad. I went for a location scout and our initial meeting. 

During an informal team discussion, one of his staff shared a heartfelt story about Babu, the high school-aged son of a local staff member named Kunjumon. Babu walked five miles each way to school, his feet weary by the time he returned home. Biju encouraged the boy to pray for a bicycle, promising to raise funds for a second-hand one. The bell of that bicycle began ringing in my ears.

Though my financial situation was insecure without a regular work in hand, I felt a nudge to help. I shared Babu’s story with a friend over the phone, and to my surprise, instantly he offered to gift the cost of a new bicycle. I enquired, George whose contact I had, to get a quote for a regular cycle. Within days, the funds were sent, as I insisted to George's account, and Babu had a gleaming new ride to conquer the hills.

But the story didn’t end with Babu’s joy. Biju, instead of celebrating the solution, was upset. He felt bypassed, his authority undermined. George, the staff member who facilitated the purchase, was fired.

I was stunned. Wasn’t the boy’s need the priority? Why did egos overshadow generosity? The incident left a bitter taste, but it also illuminated a harsh truth: sometimes, even acts of kindness are entangled in human weakness.

 


The Climax: A Cycle of Reflections

These stories—of my childhood bicycle, the missionary’s rusting companion, and Babu’s new ride—are linked by more than spokes and wheels. They are tales of humanity’s relationship with humility, authority, and service.

The bicycle, simple as it is, becomes a mirror. It reflects the dreams of an eight-year-old child, the resilience of a missionary couple, and the struggles of a boy in Wayanad. It also exposes the flaws in systems, the pettiness in leadership, and the power of small acts of kindness.

As I sat on my newer veranda, watching a child pedal past on a bright blue cycle, I thought about the journey of life itself. Like learning to ride, it’s a balance of falls and triumphs, of effort and grace. And in the end, the question isn’t about how far we traveled or how fast we went—but whom we carried along the way.

Wouldn’t you agree? (Your comments are invited)


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Tuesday, November 5, 2024

The Trumpet Sounds


Will Trump Sound the Trumpet?

Philipose Vaidyar

May we neither be politicians nor prophets, yet God’s Word offers us insight into the times. Observing this U.S. election from a place of faith may be a moment of profound change.

Throughout history, God has raised leaders—not for their flawless personalities or ideal families, but to accomplish His purpose. He has used kings and rulers, sometimes from foreign lands, as His instruments of correction or restoration. The Scriptures remind us that even those we might not expect can be called "My servant" and used to bring about His will.

As we consider this election, we reflect on the significance of the fig tree blossoming, a sign that God’s plan is unfolding. Democracy may often be preferred to authoritarianism, yet we must also consider where our democratic leadership is leading. God’s purposes are not bound to any single system, and He may lift up His name through leaders and events far beyond our expectations.

So, we ask: Will Trump sound the trumpet this time? Could this election spark shifts that ultimately lift up God’s will, even echoing through the lands of ancient history? As we watch prayerfully, may we remember that God’s plans often unfold surprisingly, reminding us of His sovereignty across all nations and times.

Tailpiece:

The trumpet in Scripture is a powerful symbol of divine action and spiritual awakening. It signals God’s presence, calls people to worship and repentance, and often precedes battle or divine intervention. In prophecy, especially Revelation, trumpets announce key end-time events, symbolizing judgment and the fulfillment of God’s plans. The “last trumpet” also represents resurrection and renewal, where God’s people are called into His eternal presence. Ultimately, the trumpet is a call to be alert, reminding us that God’s purposes are unfolding.

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