An old, but glorious cycle

DC Sharma 

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It was 1962; I was a student of Class VIII. The government middle school in our village had been upgraded. Half a kilometre away, a new building for the high school was coming up. Thinking that a bicycle could save time, I requested my father to get me one. On the way to school was a junk dealer’s store. An old frame of a Hercules bicycle, with nonexistent tyres and tubes, would hang there on a peg.

Seeing my interest, the junk dealer raised the price, demanding Rs 40. A new cycle would cost Rs 80-100. My father was a marginal farmer. Finding the dealer adamant, he advised me not to show my eagerness. I thought my father was trying to evade me. But one day, as I was passing the shop, the dealer himself called me: ‘You may now have this frame just for Rs 15.’ But my father stood firm. The deal was struck at Rs 10. 

My joy knew no bounds. Spending Rs 11.50 more, the almost brand-new looking cycle was in my hands.

My Hercules was old, but it was a marvellous gift, as if from the high heaven itself. While even the new cycles of my class fellows would not pick up speed, mine was a racer. While their bikes would make a rattling sound, mine was sound proof! The cycle saw me through my college days too. Even when I worked as an assistant professor at a college in Jalandhar, the Hercules was my proud possession. 

Then came the unlucky hour. I was tempted to exchange it for an almost-new bicycle of an aged colleague. He told me that for him even the old Hercules would do. I was taken in. He took Rs 150 along with my cycle. By then, the rate of a new cycle had gone up to Rs 200.

My new buy was all show, but proved hollow and worthless soon after. It showed little strength and speed. Every alternate day, the tyres would need to be inflated. Its rims soon started rusting. Its axles would make a jarring sound. The bell would often get jammed, emiting no sound at all. My colleague would gracefully pass by me on my old Hercules. My heart would sink and cry in pain, as if the old cycle was saying to me: ‘You are worthless... you sold me for your selfish ends... I stood by you through thick and thin....’

Lying in my bed that night, I could not sleep. In a flash, it appeared as if it was not the Hercules speaking, but my father, whom I had left behind in our village. I felt he must be feeling like the Hercules in the junk store. The very next day, I took leave and went to visit him. He had been ailing. I brought him with me, where I could serve him for a few weeks only. 

Even the inanimate Hercules proved sincere and faithful. Even when sold, it conveyed my father’s feelings to me which I had ignored.