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The parting kick

Hope you won’t dispose it of as scrap,” I asked him pleadingly.

The parting kick


Vikramdeep Johal 

Hope you won’t dispose it of as scrap,” I asked him pleadingly. “No, no, I’ll use it myself. Need it to transport all kinds of material,” the scrap dealer replied. We were talking about my 17-year-old scooter, which I had finally decided to sell — with a heavy heart.

Despite his assurance, I couldn’t help imagining him tearing it apart as if it was just another aged machine. Only I knew it had a heart that kept beating in rhythm with my own for years, until the allure of the automobile made me cold-shoulder an old companion. And only I knew how it had sulked over being cruelly ignored by its master.

The buyer tried to kick-start the vehicle, but it refused to cooperate. Was that a sign for me? Did it want to stay on for old times’ sake? No matter what was on its “mind”, I couldn’t afford to be in a dilemma now. There was just too much traffic on the city roads. Driving a two-wheeler amid the rampaging MUVs and SUVs was like going out for a walk in a minefield. You never knew which “terrorist on wheels” would knock the living daylights out of you. No wonder my father had shunned the scooter like the plague after a close shave in a hit-and-run.

I volunteered to make my Chetak get going, but my kicks, too, didn’t work. I was well aware of its tantrums. Having suffered neglect in recent times, it had developed a nasty habit of testing my patience to the hilt. Sensing my exasperation, the man wiped sweat off his brow and made a fresh attempt. This time, the engine sputtered to life as if a dormant volcano had become active again, unleashing a fiery jet of smoke in my direction. I couldn’t suppress a pang of jealousy at this change of loyalties. Perhaps this was its way of getting back at me for switching over to the four-wheeler, which was safer but by no means invincible.

As the vehicle’s new owner got ready to depart, I felt a lump in my throat. A flood of memories inundated my mindscape. I’d purchased it soon after bagging a full-time job with a princely four-figure salary. Work or leisure, this once-prized possession had dutifully taken me to my destination — with or without partners — and often on a near-empty fuel tank. The deceptively inanimate thing had been privy to my most intimate thoughts, thoughts that were too outrageous to be shared with any person. Riding it was like writing a personal diary in motion.

“Take good care of it,” I felt like telling him, but quickly reminded myself that he wasn’t my son-in-law and this wasn’t my daughter’s doli moment. And as it went out of sight, a piece of me was taken away forever, leaving me richer by a few thousand bucks but infinitely poorer. 

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