Bicycle - An Autobiography

Bicycle - An Autobiography

I am a bicycle. Bob, my owner calls me as tattoo. When Bob had gone to the bicycle shop to buy one, he had tested a lot and finally selected me as his first choice. When the shopkeeper handed me over to Bob, he took me on the road and placed his friend Titi on the rod. I heard Bob telling, "This is my horse, so I will name it as tattoo". Since then, not only Bob and Titi, but also all his friends used to call me as Tattoo. Bob had taken me first to a small park, where he kept me on the wall and they two had gone away for a couple of hours. In between it had been drizzling. Bob and Titi came back completely drenched but they wiped me using their handkerchiefs and Titi's choli. He had finally taken me to his home and placed me just below the staircases. Bob used to take care of me, a lot. Even one dust particle would not escape his affectionate caring eyes. I could understand that I was Bob's first vehicle and Bob also required me badly as he was only 12.

Bob used to take me to school, tuition, and to the parks everywhere. I heard once Bob had been arguing with his mother, why he wanted to drive me to his relatives' place a relatively long and tedious journey. His mother had been insisting him to avail public transport instead of a bicycle. I lost count of how many Titis rode on my carrier. At times, even they used to drive me also. I was so happy that I never used to show any tantrums or refuse any journey. The life was very smooth and being a bicycle, I could never expect more attention, and this was the golden period of my life.

But the fact of life is all mornings are not equally bright, a cloud or two is bound to appear as the rule of the law. Bob had grown up and brought home a second-hand motorbike. Slowly I could find that he started using the bike more than me and placed me in a smaller place, where the circumference was so small that he used to keep me by turning my handle. I started gathering dusts on my rods and seats and Bob changed his daily habit of cleaning me to a weekly one. I could sense that Bob's attention had come down. I had felt humiliating and tried to convey my expostulations to Bob in every possible manner to the best of my ability.

However finally the dreaded dreams had come true. Bob finally preferred to sell off the bicycle and solely focus on the bike. I had been sold to a washer man. Sounds nostalgic!

Bill Watterson might say, "People who get nostalgic about childhood were obviously never children." May be, bicycles are in-born matured!

Even a bicylce has got its own noble feelings!