A Cyclist's Nightmare

One change that blogging has brought about in me is that I have almost begun to look forward to strokes of misfortune, so that I can blog about them. Well, not extremely severe strokes, but the sort of mishaps that might get me down temporarily, and thinking of which I can later smile ... and blog ...

Last week, I had gone to the office on my cycle, as usual. When I tell you that the ride is 8 km, some of you might gasp in disbelief with an "8 km to office and back everyday! Oh my!" But let me stop those gasps of disbelief and admiration (albeit reluctantly). I assure you - if you have a geared bicycle of reasonable quality, and if the road doesn't have steep slopes and is in reasonably good condition, 8 km definitely doesn't qualify as a test of endurance, or a pain. However, let me tell you from experience - 8 km can be a test of endurance and patience, and a real pain in the heel, if your tire is punctured, and you have to wheel your cycle all the way ... for this is precisely what happened last week on the way from the office to my home. 

On the evening of that fateful day, as I rode my cycle out of the parking area of my office, a periodic bump aroused my suspicion. Bumps on the road are normal, but periodic bumps? I got off my cycle, and squeezed the rear tire, confirming the worst fear of a cyclist - my tire was punctured. 

I enquired about the location of some nearby cycle shop where I could have the puncture fixed. Obliging citizens in the locality pointed me in a direction opposite to the direction I would have taken if I was going home. I proceeded in that direction, and eventually came across a shop where lots of tires were kept outside. Assuming that I had reached my destination, I approached the man at the shop and asked him to have a look at my tire. Nothing doing. That person apparently dealt only with tires of trucks, cars and motor bikes, and not the humble rear tire of my cycle. 

After further enquiry, I was directed to another shop that was located still farther from my home. You know how these feelings that go along the lines "I have come this far, I won't turn back now" get hold of you. This was precisely the feeling that got hold of me. I persevered on. I wheeled on for maybe about 10 more minutes, and finally arrived at the shop with the painting of a cycle beside a closed shutter. The painting of the cycle indicated that it was a cycle shop all right. The closed shutter indicated that the shop was closed.

It was enquiry time again. This time I was directed to another place still farther away from home. Whoever said "the road goes on and on" definitely had a point. Now, you know how these feelings that go along the lines "I have come so far, I have had enough, it's time to turn back" get hold of you. This was precisely the feeling that got hold of me. I duly turned back, and eventually I was at the point where I had discovered the puncture - in front of my office.

I decided to drop in at the office and have dinner there while considering my options. I could try to appeal to the better nature of the conductors and passengers of a bus to my home, and take my cycle on board the bus. Considering that conductors and passengers alike would create a fuss even over a slightly larger-than-average backpack, I was sure that they wouldn't exactly roll out the red carpet and welcome me with open arms and a happy face, if they saw that I was in possession of a bicycle. So this option was out of the question.

Autorickshaw was instantly ruled out too. Autorickshaw drivers in this place, as a rule, don't go by a meter that is not rigged, and they charge by the nose. For riding a whole 8 km, I dared not think what would be the bill.

Then I could leave my cycle at the office, and look into the matter the next day. But I felt that this would just be putting off the problem for another day. 

Hence, I acted on the only remaining option - to wheel my cycle all the way from office to home. Yes, it was a long stretch if you were wheeling your cycle along, and not riding it. Yes, it would take a hell of a long time. But what mainly daunted me was the impending monotony. Just walking and walking and walking ... it would be boring. The road would seem much more bearable if there was someone (mad enough) to walk all the way home with me. But without my even asking anyone, it was made clear to me that I would have to walk it out alone. Over dinner at the office, I told Damu about the predicament I found myself in, and voiced aloud to Damu my plan to wheel my cycle home. He instantly told me that if he were in my shoes, he wouldn't do what I proposed to do even if he were paid to do it. Exit Damu. As for Arjun, he's the kind of person who won't budge from his bed and go to the kitchen about 10 metres away in order to get himself a glass of water. Exit Arjun.

Fortunately, Baibhab consented to accompany me over a stretch of about a couple of kilometres from the office. This was not a manifestation of altruism on the part of Baibhab. His home is quite close to the office, and he usually does the commute on foot, and his road and my road happened to be the same for a couple of kilometres.

The road was pleasant enough before Baibhab and I parted ways. We talked of this and that. Eventually, part ways we did, and I was faced with 6 km of a lonely walk with an unridable cycle by my side. As Bertie Wooster says, it was my cue to put on the stiff upper lip and move on. I wondered if things could get any worse, and I got an answer from the heavens, literally. It began to rain. I am sorely tempted to mention here that it began to rain cats and dogs, that within half a minute I was drenched to the skin, that the monotone of the sound of torrents of rain falling to the earth and splattering on the road was periodically broken by peals of thunder, and that through all this, Firdous bravely battled on, a lone cyclist with his dysfuntional ride. But the truth of the matter is that it was a mere drizzle. I walked on.

A short while later, the sound of dogs barking made me realise that there was still scope for things getting worse. Supposing the dogs happened to chase me? At that time, it was with a feeling of relief that I noted that the dogs did not give a damn about me. But now as I type these words in the safety of my home, I wonder if I am a little disappointed that the dogs did not give chase with fangs bared, hackles raised and claws unsheathed. It would have given me something extremely exciting to blog about ...

On second thoughts, I am glad I did not have a first hand experience of the above mentioned fangs, hackles and claws. Better in one piece with nothing to blog about, than in several pieces with a first hand account of the hospital ward to blog about. But something in the line of a mildly adrenaline-pumping chase wouldn't have been so bad, if I managed to escape unscathed (yeah right - outrunning a pack of dogs that are after me baying for my blood, that too with a cycle in tow! I wonder if such a scene would be part of an action thriller or a comedy).

Nothing eventful happened after that on the road. (The more observant of you readers will have noticed that nothing eventful at all happened from the start.) I walked the rest of the lonely road. Totally, I took about one and half hours from office till home.

 Abrupt and anti-climatic as the conclusion of the account of the 8 km journey of a wanna-be cycling enthusiast is, I badly want to add some "punch" - so to speak - to the last lines of this narration. But there's only so much spice you can add to the description of parking your ride in front of your home, and removing your shoes, and opening the door to your abode and stepping in ... that's it! I am going for the "publish" button!

In Pursuit of Mangoes

For most people, vacation is an event much looked forward to. I have seen people put up countdown charts on the wall and religiously strike off each passing day. Sometimes I feel that for them, the anticipation of the vacation is rather more joyful than the vacation itself.

I - on the other hand - prepare my countdown chart once the vacation begins. Vacation means a pause to the tranquility of the everyday routine of my life, the most rewarding part of which is going to the classroom where I had spent three years scribbling in the back pages of my note-book, taking a count of how many people were sleeping if I myself managed to keep sleep at bay, chatting with Damu, watching Ashwin drawing half a car (he refrained from drawing the other half as the lack of symmetry would ruin it), observing Hussam, G-Man and Jayalal playing Hangman with names of football players, looking out of the window at the trees in the distance and the passers-by, laughing at Roshan's comment about the nerdy professor on the dais and - rather occasionally - living up to my official occupation of "student" and listening to the nerdy professor.

But those three years were long gone. I was now thirty years old. For five years now, I was the (hopefully not so nerdy) lecturer (struggling with his Ph.D. so as to become a professor).

The end-semester exam was over. I was done with correcting and grading the answer papers of the two hundred second years that I taught. I taught Solid State Devices, which meant that a good part of the answer sheets were blank. There were some who made a valiant effort to cook up theories in the exam hall. All rubbish of course. None of the ground-shaking theories till date were produced in an exam hall. But I preferred the answer sheets containing the atrocious concepts of these radicals to those of the studious dozen who had mastered everything that Streetman, Banerjee and Neamen had to say on the subject. While the studious' answer papers always made me feel like I was reading the text-book again, the radicals' papers had that quality which Subramaniam Sir claimed about theories he would explain in class - "you will not see this in any text-book".

I completed the list. I looked at each name and the letter in front of each name that denoted their grade. Needless to say, the studious twelve had all secured the S grade (the top grade). It was with a heavy heart that I gave the radicals Cs and Ds. I contemplated the grade I had given to that over-sized boy who frequently bunked my classes in the name of FOSS and IEEE. If only I could cut his twenty marks and thus award him an F grade ... but no. That was out of the question. Ethical issues notwithstanding, if the dratted kid lodged a complaint and it was found that I was using the examination as a means for vengeance, it would mean another meeting with the Dean - perhaps for the last time.

All my academic duties for the semester now over, I went to my room and set to packing my bag. I was going to Thalayolaparambu the next day for a week.

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Thalayolaparambu is what villages should be - scenic, quiet and peaceful everywhere except the chandha, the market, where vegetable vendors compete with each other in raising their voices above the others. My father frequently keeps reminding me that the vehicles that have increased in number due to the newly constructed bridge have destroyed the peace, but for me, who spends a good part of the year in a college campus where students ride bikes without silencers, Thalayolaparambu is peaceful.

I got off from the bus at the bus-stop. I was making my way, bag in hand, along the chandha.  The familiar sounds greeted me. Cries of "Ulli, Savola, Inji, Veluthulli ..." from the man selling onions and ginger and garlic ... "oru kilo pacha maanga muppadhe" from the old man selling unripened mangoes ...

I went to the old man, not because I liked unripened mangoes. I have always liked my mangoes sweet and ripened. Those unripened mangoes reminded me of a bespectacled football maniac with the scarcity of hair on his head more than compensated by the density of his beard and mustache.

Many things reminded me of Shanil. Blue Chelsea T-shirts with "SAMSUNG" written on the front reminded me of the night he ran along the second floor corridor of C-hostel screaming "Chelsea has scored a goal! Chelsea has scored a goal!" Whenever I see an advertisement of Gulfgate (a hair-fixing agency), hair-loss controlling oil or my own receding hair line in a mirror, I remember the day I asked him for the fun of it "Hey Shanil, which hair oil do you use? I want to make sure I DON'T buy that particular brand" to which he replied "Firdous! I shall be praying for you. My curses never fail. Those who have laughed at the hair on my head (or rather, the hair not there on my head) have not laughed long." Whenever any of my students boldly and persistently questions me about some concept he has not fully grasped, I remember Shanil. I see Shanils in those of my students who openly criticise the way I take the class in the middle of a lecture (fortunately, this criticism has been thrown at me only twice) and in those who imitate me secretly while at the Amul ice-cream parlour, ignorant of the fact that I am in the queue just behind them (unfortunately, this imitation has happened about seven times, and I suspect the recent decrease in frequency of this imitation in Amul is because it is now common knowledge in the branch that I am a hopeless ice-cream addict).

As for the unripened mangoes, it is a different story. Memories of a day in my first year at NIT-C came back to me.

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Another graphics hour was over - finally. No matter how hard I tried to rotate the cone in my head, in the end it seemed like it was my entire head that had been subjected to the rotations. The next hour was free for us. We walked out of the the lecture hall complex, some of us headed for the peace and quiet of our rooms for a well-earned rest, some to the computer centre which we called "tharavaadu" - ancestral home - among ourselves, and the more battle-hardened of us heading for the library.

Shanil, Shameem and Shaju were making for their rooms. They passed the mango tree on the way. On that clear February fore-noon, the trio found it difficult to rein in their spirit of adventure, and their hunger for the unripened mangoes. They set to work first jumping as high as they could to reach the mangoes, then giving each other a leg-up, and then collecting sticks and stones and throwing these at the mangoes.

Unfortunately for them, they were unconsciously poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. The mango tree was right in front of the Training and Placement Department, where dwelt Dr. Surendra Prasad Sir (with special emphasis on the “Dr.” and “Sir”, as we had been coached by our seniors). His being the head of T & P was the cause of whispers that he had the power to ruin our lives.

Sure enough, the T & P Head had a good view of the three happily picking up stones and fallen mangoes.

If I were writing a fairy tale, the next sentence would be something like “The dragon, disturbed from its slumber, emerged from its den, took one look at the three knights in armour, and let forth a deafening roar, fire emerging from its open jaws”. Though this narration is based on a real occurrence, this is as close to dragons and deafening roars as it gets.

Surendra Prasad Sir, disturbed from whatever he was doing, emerged from his room, stepped out of the building, and took one look at the three students with leaves sticking in their hair. At least this was the case with Shameem and Shaju. Shanil had no leaves entangled in his hair, for, indeed, his hair was not thick enough to entangle leaves. Surendra (at this point, I must remind the reader that it is with great personal risk that I drop the honorary prefix and suffix of “Dr.” and “Sir”... anyway, Surendra) let forth a shout which froze the three in the midst of their merry-making. He covered the ground between himself and our three knights in seven strides, and after releasing considerable steam, he demanded the ID cards of the three. Shameem was wise enough to have left his ID card in his room. Shaju cleverly declared (untruthfully) that he had left his in his room. But Shanil, who had his ID card in his pocket, was foolish enough to hand it over.

On a warm night one week after that incident, as I was returning to the hostel after an hour in the computer centre, I passed by the T & P department. Shanil, with the aid of a long stick, was trying to get mangoes from the same tree. I noticed that he already had about four mangoes on the ground. Knowing him to have rather a weak bowel, I inquired of him the reason for this unnatural vigour and zeal for mangoes. That was when he spilled out the whole story.

“...you know, Firdous, for one week now I have been regularly coming here for mangoes at night. Taking my ID card ... I am so pissed off!”

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I walked the rest of the way to my grandfather’s house, my bag in one hand, thirty rupees worth of unripened mangoes in the other, oblivious to the greetings of neighbours and relatives on the way.

There and Back Again - A (Budding?) Cyclist's Tale

You have probably experienced that feeling when you wake up, take a look at your clock, and realize that you are way behind schedule. The way in which the human body responds to such a stimulus might vary from person to person. In my case, I feel a sort of jolt in the region of my abdomen, my heart pumps at a slightly higher rate, and the thought "Oh my! Is it that time already?!" fills my head.

It was with the above mentioned jolt in the abdomen, raised heart-rate and thought about time that I woke last Saturday at 7.30 a.m. And with good reason too. I had agreed with Amarnath to go on a cycling trip to IISc, and from there to Marathahalli. The time of 7.30 meant that I was late (in spite of Amar's repeated instruction to not be late). The fact that there were 11 missed calls on my mobile from Amar during the time I was asleep did nothing whatsoever to calm me.

After a hurried and meagre breakfast, a quick change of clothes, and a phone-call to Amar telling him that I would be at Silk Board within half an hour or so, I set off on my cycle.

I covered the 12 km to Silk Board more or less within the time I had specified, but there was no sign of Amar. In all probability, he underestimated the efficacy of my cycle, or my prowess on the saddle, or both. In any case, I had to wait for a whole ten minutes before he came zipping along on his cycle.

I think a word about Amarnath is called for. When not on his cycle, this chap has all the air of sensibility in the world that you could wish for. Not a shred of anything comical about him. But when his feet are on the pedals, his hands are on the handle, and his bottom is on the saddle, Amar casts aside his cloak of sensibility, and becomes a blot on the landscape by donning a black T-shirt, shorts, a bicycle helmet, a pair of sun-glasses, and a smug look.

Both of us spent some time commenting on the other's attire. While I found his shorts and sun-glasses odd, he thought my pants and somewhat formal-looking shirt unsuitable (only too true, I am afraid). Then we finally took off. Our destination, IISc, was about 15 km away.

There is no denying it - a BTwin Rockrider 5.0 bicycle is a far cry from a Trek 7100. Even allowing for the considerable difference in Amar's and my strength and stamina, the efficiency of his Trek over my Rockrider was evident from the start. There were several factors for this. First and foremost, mine is a mountain bike, and that means my tires are smaller, while Amar's is a hybrid bike that comes with comparatively larger tires (larger in terms of radius). Besides, maintenance will also have some say.

Many were the instances when Amar would advance way ahead of me, in spite of the fact that while he was pedaling at a comfortable pace, I was giving it my all in top gear, and then he would wait by the side of the road for me to catch up. During the few instances when the road was somewhat empty, we cycled side by side, keeping up a conversation, Amar talking comfortably, while I was talking in gasps in a somewhat wheezy voice from the effort of keeping up with him.

It is no surprise that our conversation almost always revolved around cycling. Amar happened to mention about the existence of several cycling enthusiasts in IISc. "At IISc there are those who go on 600 km trips. 600 km! Imagine that! They are determined folks. Sometimes their tire might get punctured while they are in the middle of a very remote area, with no hope of a cycle shop for miles around, and they forge on ahead with the flat tire". Such were his words.

About 10 minutes and a couple of kilometers after these words were uttered, Amar's front tire got punctured. I wondered for a moment whether Amar would pick a leaf from the tough and determined IISc cyclists, and continue pedaling. Nothing of the sort. He promptly got off his cycle, and together we began the 3 or 4 km stretch during which we pulled our cycles along in search of a cycle shop. For once, I was able to cope with his pace. We passed a golf course, the Raj Bhavan, and several other structures that had nothing to do with rectifying a punctured tire. Periodically we asked passers-by if there was a cycle shop nearby. Some shook their heads, while the others assured us that there was one on the way ahead, just a short distance away. The way we were led on, it was something like forcing a donkey to move ahead by dangling a carrot in front of its eyes.

Finally we arrived at a cycle shop. But the person at the shop seemed to be unwilling to repair the puncture, or ignorant of the art of tire puncture repair. Whatever the case, the message was clear - we couldn't hop onto our saddles and ride away just yet. We dragged on with our cycles by our sides, and finally found a shop manned by a person skilled and willing to fix the damn puncture on Amar's tire. A work of about 20 minutes, and then we resumed pedaling, till we reached IISc.

After a brief rest at the room of Arjun and KVG, we had lunch, and set about exploring the IISc campus. Cycling in IISc is an ecstatic experience. The trees there provide for beautiful scenery and shade. The frequency of motor vehicles that roar by you, shunting you to the side of the road, is very low. And as for the condition of the roads in IISc, while all the roads that are really used are smooth, there are also the relatively untrodden paths that are not tarred, that consist of loose stones and mud, which lead into areas that might be considered a few steps short of being a forest. Trees simply grow wildly there. And this was the kind of road that I loved. I finally got a break from the smooth, relatively uneventful ride so far on even roads (uneventful, if you don't count the tire puncture). Riding on the path into the forest was fun. The feel of the handles vibrating under my grip, and the whole cycle shaking, the fact that I had to expend more energy on this uneven track, but the exhilaration easily making up for it, the atmosphere of the place ... and to cap it all, there was the satisfaction that on this rocky terrain, Amar was handicapped on his hybrid bike. Hybrid tires are thinner, and hence more prone to being punctured (Amar said something about thinner tires being associated with higher pressure, and hence this tendency for punctures ... anyway, the point is, Amar was handicapped). It was with extreme care that Amar followed me, with the result that he fell behind, and I had to wait for him for quite some time to catch up. But once we got back onto tarred road domain, Amar promptly reasserted the superiority of his Trek by determinedly staying ahead of me for some distance, ignoring my pleas to him to slow down.

Then we set off for Marathahalli, where dwell seven of the Guha Boys: Dash, G-Man, Jayalal, Kurian, Muru, Ropo and Shakku. This was a ride of about 25 km. On the way we stopped a couple of times to drink water and stay hydrated, and at one point we had to cut across a railway line and hoist our cycles over a low fence by the above-mentioned railway line so as to get back on the road. We covered the distance of 25 km in good time.

Thus, we finally arrived at the abode of our friends in Marathahalli at about 4.30 p.m. Amar left within a couple of hours, for he wanted to avoid being on the road on his cycle after it became really dark. I chose to spend the night at Marathahalli.

By the time I tied up my shoe lace and got on my cycle to embark on the return journey, it was about 5.00 p.m. Sunday. This stretch of about 25 km from Marathahalli to my abode in Electronic City felt lonely, in spite of the fact that cars, trucks and motor-cycles were buzzing by. True that while cycling with a friend, the chances to have a conversation are few. There is usually too much traffic on the road. And if you are on a slow mountain bike and your friend is on a fast hybrid bike, your friend is bound to be ahead most of the time. And when you cycle with a friend, his problems become your problems too. For instance, the case of Amar's tire puncture forced me to pull my cycle along as well, even though my tires were in good condition. But when all is said and done, there is no denying that going together is better than going alone. True that even a lone cycle ride is not without its rewards. The sensation of the wind in your hair ... the feel of a swift and effortless downhill drive (although a slow and painful uphill climb is also part of the package) ... the satisfaction of having covered a considerable distance on a cycle, with just human muscular power and enthusiasm as fuel ... but the fact remains - avoid loner mode on a cycle if you can.