Baby you can ride my Bike

(Substantially long and self-indulging. You have been warned. Please do read it, though, right till the end. Its one of my favourite posts)

Yesterday, the 8th of August marked the day on which I got my bicycle, eleven years ago, in 1996. The very thought of my lovely bike rusting away, unwanted and not used for almost the best part of four years has prompted me to write this 'tribute' post of sorts.

What follows might be classified as a series of revelations, which in a different time and a different place might've made me undergo a reasonable amount of teasing and possible humiliation, but I've now come to a place where I don't really give a rodent's behind anymore.

I remember the 4th of July, 1996 as clearly as can be. It was the third day since school had re-opened, and our school had, back in those times, adopted this new style of curriculum wherein, a fortnight after our final exams, we would have class for a month, to start us off on the next year's syllabus following which we'd get a summer vacation where we'd be loaded with assignments.

It was quite an unusual system, something I would hate at this point in time, for my portfolio has been reasonably diversified. However, back then, with the appetite to study and read and learn being so enormous, it seemed like this sort of system would definitely augur well for those that wanted to make the most of it.

So class 9 began around April 96 for a month, soon after I turned 13 and closed again for two months of summer vacation and reopened on July 2nd. Two days of school passed by without a hitch, and then we're back to where I began three paragraphs before.

I was late for class, because the city-bus that I used to travel to school was unusually crowded that day, and I was forced to board the next bus. Consequently, I missed out on attending the school assembly and entered class directly in the first hour.

What I saw, or rather who I saw when I entered class that day, is crystal clear in my mind. She was the new girl in school, here because her Dad was transferred to Mysore. She was beautiful, with her short hair, her cute face, her gentle and soft voice and everything else about her which had me riveted to the spot near the door for about three seconds, soon after which I proceeded to enter class.

It wasn't just me that was enamoured by the new entrant, I am certain one third of the guys in class were too. The next two classes were spent alternatively in throwing furtive glances at the afore mentioned cute person, and praying fervently for her to be in the same classes as mine, in those instances where there was a possibility of the class being split for different reasons.

It turned out, again, due to a simple twist of fate, that she was in English Course A as well as in the Hindi section, both of which were my choices too, and I was pretty darn glad that she had made the same choices as me.

The first crush I had was on another classmate, way back in class 2, after which I migrated to having crushes on school seniors and pretty teachers, in primary section, doing things that were considered 'cute' in an attempt to clamour for their attention and their time.

However, from class 6 to 8, there was nobody who had me so preoccupied, specially in school, in the manner in which this person was able to attract my attention. It was my first crush since I had entered my teens, and it felt good to have someone as the object of your affections, albeit in a secretive manner.

It is at this point that I need to mention how this entire crush thing was a one-way street. She was so much out of my league (back then) that despite being eternally optimistic, I knew that I never ever did stand a chance. Even if she knew that I really liked her, and that I would do anything including write all her lab records, and her assignments, and take all the punishments that she was supposed to be handed out, there was no chance in hell that something would come out of it.

Not that I was a Quasimodo to her Esmeralda, however. I still don't know what I would've had to do to be in that league where she'd more than take notice of me, and I guess that was part of what made things so much more interesting.

I had previously mentioned as to how I would take the city bus to school and back, not having learnt to cycle, just yet. My sister, on the other hand, had already learnt how to ride it, and was lucky enough to have even managed to own one, and was riding it to school.

It was quite embarrassing back then for me, considering it was a matter of honour, and there were people in my class riding around on bikes and I still was an uncoordinated klutz. I had made previous attempts to learn it, but then just gave up after losing balance, always having had the fear of falling off stuck deeply in the back of my head.

The incident that galvanized me towards learning to ride it is worth mentioning, just like every other insignificant part of my life. We had a lesson in Hindi, in class 9, which was supposed to be humorous, with the protagonist learning to cycle in his late 40s and always failing miserably. The teacher, who I detested for reasons that might just end up constituting another blogpost, did the usual unnecessary histrionics that were her hallmark, and tried 'teaching' us the lesson.

At the very end, she asked us to write out an essay on 'How I Learnt to Ride the bicycle', and then, much to my dismay, went around asking everyone as to whether or not they'd knew how to ride one. When my turn came to answer, some other smart mouth replied in the negative, even before I could uncharacteristically mumble something and get away with it, and to add insult to injury, also said that my sister knew how to ride one, and used to come to school on it.

There were sniggers all around, as I felt humiliated and partly ashamed, but I tried not letting that affect me. The only thing that really stung was how the object of my affections had also joined in the giggle-party.

My thoughts were in a tizzy, for I was trying to console myself that she was laughing, just to fit in with the rest, though my mind knew better. It was that same day that I decided that matters had been delayed far too long, and that it was now a 'do or die' situation.

To cut a long story short, thereafter, my sister's bicycle suffered substantially as I went about learning the ropes and falling quite a bit in the process. But the sheer joy of having mastered the blessed thing was unparalled, and I had this huge grin plastered on my face which was as a direct consequence of having sound balance.

Once my folks purchased the bike for me, I did have some early problems related to how I would be able to get on the seat and get off it, considering the fact that it was slightly higher off the ground than the cycle I had learnt to ride first, but all in all, this was one of the best things to have happened to me.

In the evenings after class, I would make quite a big deal about taking my cycle out of the stand, and cycling past the place where she'd sit, waiting for return transport back home, and make small talk on occasion, and then ride away with a big grin on my face, putting a mental tally mark against the total number of times she and I had had a 'conversation'.

A conversation could even be a 'Hi', from either of us, and judging by the Bambi eyes that I would have made when she was in the vicinity, I am certain she knew that I had fallen for her.

Class 9 came, and class 9 went by, and after the final exams, we found out that her Dad had yet another transfer, and that they would be leaving to another city. I was sad, no doubt, and at the very end of it all recall saying 'goodbye, all the best for you board exams. Do well in class X', or something as dorky.

That was the end of that. I haven't said her name, for I don't want to cause her further embarrassment. I think I did enough of it eleven years ago.

I never felt more Kevin Arnold-ish in my life than I did that day, as I walked away, thinking of how I wish things turned out differently, hoping that she'd stay and not go, and that I'd get repeated chances to make a fool out of myself, as I went about in my attempts to woo her.

Now I know it was a crush, but back then, it seemed like it was the end of the world as I knew it. But it never is, and life goes on, until its time to say the final goodbye.

Life, eleven years down the line, as it turns out, seems so much different, so very 'adult', with greater expectations, more challenges, and loftier ambitions of a practical kind and equally saddening moments of anguish, disappointment and loss, all of which are taken in stride. It is the small moments that we've encountered that end up teaching you so much, making one handle what comes up with supposedly consummate ease.

Dripping sentimentally with gooey nostalgia, I can say for sure that I will never forget what happened in most parts of my life, this one being high on the list of special memories to cherish.

Back in the summer of 96, those were the best days of my life.

EDIT: Pretty much every day is. Regardless.

(The title is supposed to be sung along the lines of a Beatles song that sounds pretty similar)