I peered suspiciously at the cycle that stood before me in all its green glory. It wasn’t a gaze of inquisitiveness, because I had seen it several times before, on several cycling trips that I’d made with my sister. In fact, it was the only cycle I saw, because she would be cycling in front of me and I on a short pink one right behind her. Naturally, I didn’t stare at mine. You don’t stare at your own cycle while cycling unless you want to stop cycling rather painfully.

I was staring at it because it looked different — drastically different — emotionally altering. For my father had gone out and had amputated the only part that I had that held me onto safety on the cycle – my darling training wheels.

You see, I was, and well, still am, one of those kids that were unbelievably late to learn the art of cycling. I learnt it in the 5th grade, and my sister slightly more bloomed, she learnt it in the 8th grade. So naturally, the time being ripe, our cycling lessons began.

The training sessions were intense and insane, emphasis on the insane. Each morning at 6 AM there was a family trip to the training ground- one of the empty fairgrounds of Haridwar where one could always find a cow chewing upon a piece of grass, staring at you, making you nervous while your feet panicked to make the cycle move. A rocky road stretched across the length of it and a BHEL building stared at it from the top.

The trip there used to take one cycle and two cars – one for the people, and one for the cycle. Yawning and scratching our heads, the starting of each day used to be a plethora of stuff to do- —brush your teeth, change your clothes, carry the cycle into the car, sit in another car, wave goodbye to papa from the other car, and sleepily wait for your destination to arrive — oh, and don’t forget, stop caring about your knees because if you do, you won’t like what will follow for them.

Hell, I thought it would be easy! My sister was the first one to learn it. My dad sat her on it, held the back of the cycle and jogged alongside her. Mumma and I cheered on from the sidelines and even the cow seemed to be smiling at the miracle. Didi was doing really, really great. There seemed to be barely any effort needed.

Papa panted and turned to look at his daughter’s feet, thinking that just holding the back of the cycle seemed a hell lot of effort- turns out, my sister hadn’t been moving the pedals at all.

The realisation having struck us, we shut up and stared at her. “I just need practice, right?” She exclaimed in her high-pitched voice.

“Yeah,” Dad muttered. Day one ended on a positive note. Didi: 1; Papa: 0; Cycling: A dying art.

To be continued…

A/N: Dear osdotme family, Jai Sri Hari! I sincerely hope you’re all doing well. I’m sorry for the really short post. You see, my school has restarted and there is loads of stuff to do- including various new ceremonies that I’m a part of. Apart from that, my sister’s laptop malfunctioned and hence, she’s using my iPad, which gives me less time to write. I haven’t written anything in weeks, and I thought it wasn’t fair to promise you posts if I wasn’t going to stick to it. So here is one, albeit short, a very dumb series, and I’m really sorry for the low quality writing. Come on- I’m not cool and creative like you guys! If anything, I’m going through a famine of it recently.
Anyhow, I hope this post made you smile. If not, look at this. You must smile. Else, how do I know you’ve forgiven me for being so annoying and unreliable? Please smile. Look at this too, if you haven’t smiled yet.
I am genuinely so sorry. Looking forward to finally being able to write like I used to again! My immense gratitude and love to each one of you. You guys rock! 🤍

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