by Edwin Fernandes
e.fernandes@idbi.co.in
Growing up in the Bandra of yore was similar to the life William Brown led,
never a dull moment. The most common mode of transport was the humble bicycle.
We had a large compound. When in later years, the adjoining cottage was pulled
down and a large building complex sprung up, a certain Salman Khan used to be
shooed away from our compound. We could barely afford to hire cycles, as we
never had pocket money.
I learnt to cycle by falling innumerable times off hired cycles, my knees and elbows often bloodied and bruised. It was my burning desire to own a cycle. WAP enabled CDMA mobiles, P4 PCs and other fancy gizmos were still in the realms of fantasy. With great trepidation, I approached my parents. Mum said I was too young to ride on the road. My Dad (who worked in the merchant navy) was an old hand in man management. Although he was away sailing for most of the year, he still had perfect control over his magnificent seven children! He advocated that unless you put a value on something, one never really appreciates it. He assured me that I would get a cycle, provided I stood among the first three in my class. You could have knocked me down with a feather. To someone who was more adept at wielding a hockey stick than a fountain pen, this was hitting below the belt.
In the 8th standard in the year 1968, I finally struck pay dirt! I composed a snail mail (there wasn't any other then), to my Dad who was in England. Thereafter, I spent the days and months eagerly awaiting my Dad’s arrival. Finally came the news that Dad’s ship was to dock. One unforgettable evening, an Ambassador taxi screeched to a stop outside our house. On the carrier was a bulky bundle, wrapped in canvas. Dad stepped out of the cab, resplendent in his smart navy uniform. He waved to me and like a true-blue navy man, wasting no time in niceties, hollered, “Are you going to give me a hand with this cycle or should I give it away?”
You could have 
knocked
me down with the same feather, once again. My cycle, my very own cycle! I had
expected a Hercules or an Atlas. Certainly not a genuine Raleigh! The military
green cycle had a dynamo, a headlamp, a revolving bell and, would you believe
it, three gears! My Dad sure did things in style. I was over the moon. That
day I even had dinner on my cycle!
I cycled to school, to picnics at the Aarey Milk Colony, to the National Park and to Tulsi Lake. I cycled to my Centre for my SSC finals. I cycled four years to a Bandra College. I won slow cycle races and dodge cycle races galore. I was only barred from fast racing, as my cycle had gears. Oh, my Raleigh served me well. Then I joined a bank and this time my Dad (now retired) was over the moon! I eventually shifted base to Juhu. The cycle remained in Bandra. When I visited home on weekends, I would take it for a small spin. Otherwise it languished under the staircase near the meter room, collecting dust.
Over the years, as I moved on in life, I acquired a scooter, a motorcycle, a car. Eventually the scooter was disposed of, the motorcycle and car were upgraded. The cycle was gradually fading from memory. I also managed to complete two postings out of Mumbai. The years flew. One day Mummy called to ask whether I was still interested in my cycle as the raddiwallah was harassing her to donate or sell it to him. That did it.
I pulled the trusty cycle out of its mothballs. I felt surges of emotion coursing through my veins. I unceremoniously shooed the startled raddiwallah away. I wasn’t ready to sever the umbilical cord, not just yet. I walked it to the nearest cycle shop. The cycle was not the only thing pumped up that day! I heaved my now large frame onto that familiar seat and the old magic was at work instantly. I huffed and puffed all the way to Juhu. It was like the Karen Carpenter song, ‘Yesterday once more.’ The watchman opened the gate, quite bemused. Let him think what he wanted. This was my very own delirious moment in the sun - I could do without having to answer inane queries.
I did a splendid paint job on my cycle. Dad, who taught me to be meticulous to the core, would have approved. Every night I cycle in the compound much to the amusement of my colleagues, who are convinced my second childhood has dawned, a bit prematurely. We are now in 2006. That makes my trusted cycle a cool 38 years. Truly old is gold; they certainly don’t make them (cycle and rider) like this anymore!
Dad, it’s been more than a decade since you sailed into
the blue yonder, but the great lesson on values you taught me, lives on. Thanks.
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Edwin Fernandes was born in Cuncolim, Goa and was brought up in Bandra, Mumbai. He is presently a General Manager in the Industrial Development Bank of India, Cuffe Parade, Mumbai. Edwin has been the editor of his Bank's House Journal for over 13 years. He plays squash on weekends and his other interests include dramatics and public speaking. He has penned this article in tribute to his father, Especiano Fernandes.