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.
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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3 comments:
I enjoy reading your writings not for the pleasure of it but for the down to earth truths it brings before me to ponder and practice
Yes its a pleasure too
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