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Balachandran V
Twisting and turning
Speeding and slowing
Through the labyrinth of streets
Braving the noise, the crowds
Boxed in by tall buildings
The bike rushes as if to escape-
Suffocated, nearly strangled.
It climbs a flyover
Higher, over the lowly lot
A blooming Gulmohar
By the side, smiling
And then – a patch of sky –
Bright, white
And farther, a deep blue.
Laboured breath, squeaking knees
Crunching pain in the lower back
Stench of garbage ride up the nose.
Passing by people, sleepy dogs
Newspaper boys whizzing by
Cycling, cycling, cycling
Cycling on a great Sunday morning.
Old men on cycles pedaling by
I could love them, warts and all.
Sticking up my nose at the bikes and cars
Cycling, cycling, cycling
Cycling on a good Sunday morning.
Smells of the sea wafting by
Drone of the jets sweeping by
Caw of the crows flying by
Roar of the waves lashing by
There is a method to starting a bike.
A deliberateness, a pause, before every step.
Keenly detecting flecks of dust, dried droppings
Of crows, of oil leaked and sticking like paste
Mixed, with the finest of grains
Wiping it all clean.
Flipping back the stand, inserting the key
And turning it right, assured of the green light,
You depress the lever; throttle closed,
Carefully pressing your foot down on the kicker
You pause – again, before bringing it down again
Gently, but firmly and swiftly,
Listening to the plug catching a spark.
As the engine sputters to life, you listen to the thuds, even.
With such intimacy, with almost love, you listen
To the throb; your bike is alive.