An unexpected conversation with an old friend earlier today took me down memory lane and had me dig up this piece I wrote 7 years ago. We had set ourselves a challenge to depict, as vividly as possible, a common Indian scene straight from the imagination and capture as many details as we could. The topic - an Indian family on a scooter. Here's what I came up with...aided in no small part by memories of my own Bajaj 150...the scourge (and blessing, all combined) of my college days!
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As I was driving towards the traffic signal, my eyes caught a scene that was comical, incongruous, dangerous and yet commonplace, all at the same time. It was an old scooter, a sky-blue Bajaj 150, slowly working its way to the signal. By every appearance, it was a relic of the past, a scooter whose place was in some dusty garage rather than out on the road. The bulbous rear end sporting a grille from which a slim trail of oil was snaking its way downwards, the paintjob that was trying in vain to hide patches of rust that had crept up the body, a feeble horn that sounded like it was dying of ashthma, and an erratic phut-phut sound emanating from its engine were all reminders of a bygone era that existed now only in memories, reminders of the scooter’s days of respectability gone by.
The scooter may have been on its deathbed, but it seemed one that was intent on carrying out its ‘Hamara Bajaj’ legacy to the very end, so long as its engine was capable of producing a single feeble spark. And that’s where the incongruity came in. Seated upon this ancient museum on wheels was an entire family of four. Mom, dad and two kids, all maintaining the air of heading out for a nice Sunday drive…so what if their only mode of transport was a rusty old contraption??
There was dad at the helm, his spotless white kurta stretched taut over his protruding belly, a loose pair of pyjamas and ‘kholapuri chappals’ completing the attire. This traditional Indian attire was marred only slightly by the black open-faced helmet perched on his head, the straps dangling uselessly down the sides. A small bead of sweat was trickling down his dark, freckled face as he put the bike in first gear, the concentration evident on his face as he waited for the instant the light would turn green.
In front of him, somehow managing to fit in between the protruding belly and the scooter handlebar, was his son, clad in brown sandals, jeans and a yellow striped t-shirt. He stood head and shoulders above the handlebar, which his little fingers were clutching for support. This little guy looked the picture of contentment. He was clearly happy to be going out for his ride, but the happiness seemed, somehow, passive. Covered by an air of nonchalance that suggested that family outings on the scooter were nothing new to him. He was looking left and right, observing the other vehicles on the road with frank curiosity.
And filling the rear seat with her bulk was the missus. A lady who seemed to demonstrate that space is a fluid concept, by somehow managing to carry her baby in the little space between the two seats.
I glanced in fresh admiration at the man, for his ability to maintain the bike’s balance with this overdose of humanity behind him…that too seated sideways with the bulk of the weight on one side.
The missus looked bored. An air of resignation on her face at being forced to tag along with the men of the household on this ride, when she could have been watching her serials at home. A freshly starched, multicolored sari draped around her head and shoulders, a ton of glass bangles on her wrists and some ostentatious gold earrings, along with a huge bindi on her forehead all indicated that the family was headed to a festive occasion, most likely to someone’s wedding. A cloth bag was dangling from her shoulders, filled, no doubt, with the baby’s things.
I couldn’t really see the baby clearly, swaddled as it was in layers of cloth and a colorful fur cap. I think it was asleep, but I couldn’t be sure. It was certainly silent.
And then the signal turned green. The ancient scooter heaved under its heavy burden as the man struggled to get it moving again, aiding it by pushing along the ground with his feet. And then, for a few heart-stopping moments, the scooter wobbled dangerously as the man fought to keep the forces of gravity at bay, his face a mask of concentration. But then the scooter picked up speed, its stance steadied somewhat and the moment of danger was past. The man’s legs came back to their resting position on the scooter, and the scooter continued to phut-phut its way to its destination, keeping close to the pavement at all times, the family maintaining their dignity as they were overtaken by all vehicles, big and small alike….
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As I was driving towards the traffic signal, my eyes caught a scene that was comical, incongruous, dangerous and yet commonplace, all at the same time. It was an old scooter, a sky-blue Bajaj 150, slowly working its way to the signal. By every appearance, it was a relic of the past, a scooter whose place was in some dusty garage rather than out on the road. The bulbous rear end sporting a grille from which a slim trail of oil was snaking its way downwards, the paintjob that was trying in vain to hide patches of rust that had crept up the body, a feeble horn that sounded like it was dying of ashthma, and an erratic phut-phut sound emanating from its engine were all reminders of a bygone era that existed now only in memories, reminders of the scooter’s days of respectability gone by.
The scooter may have been on its deathbed, but it seemed one that was intent on carrying out its ‘Hamara Bajaj’ legacy to the very end, so long as its engine was capable of producing a single feeble spark. And that’s where the incongruity came in. Seated upon this ancient museum on wheels was an entire family of four. Mom, dad and two kids, all maintaining the air of heading out for a nice Sunday drive…so what if their only mode of transport was a rusty old contraption??
There was dad at the helm, his spotless white kurta stretched taut over his protruding belly, a loose pair of pyjamas and ‘kholapuri chappals’ completing the attire. This traditional Indian attire was marred only slightly by the black open-faced helmet perched on his head, the straps dangling uselessly down the sides. A small bead of sweat was trickling down his dark, freckled face as he put the bike in first gear, the concentration evident on his face as he waited for the instant the light would turn green.
In front of him, somehow managing to fit in between the protruding belly and the scooter handlebar, was his son, clad in brown sandals, jeans and a yellow striped t-shirt. He stood head and shoulders above the handlebar, which his little fingers were clutching for support. This little guy looked the picture of contentment. He was clearly happy to be going out for his ride, but the happiness seemed, somehow, passive. Covered by an air of nonchalance that suggested that family outings on the scooter were nothing new to him. He was looking left and right, observing the other vehicles on the road with frank curiosity.
And filling the rear seat with her bulk was the missus. A lady who seemed to demonstrate that space is a fluid concept, by somehow managing to carry her baby in the little space between the two seats.
I glanced in fresh admiration at the man, for his ability to maintain the bike’s balance with this overdose of humanity behind him…that too seated sideways with the bulk of the weight on one side.
The missus looked bored. An air of resignation on her face at being forced to tag along with the men of the household on this ride, when she could have been watching her serials at home. A freshly starched, multicolored sari draped around her head and shoulders, a ton of glass bangles on her wrists and some ostentatious gold earrings, along with a huge bindi on her forehead all indicated that the family was headed to a festive occasion, most likely to someone’s wedding. A cloth bag was dangling from her shoulders, filled, no doubt, with the baby’s things.
I couldn’t really see the baby clearly, swaddled as it was in layers of cloth and a colorful fur cap. I think it was asleep, but I couldn’t be sure. It was certainly silent.
And then the signal turned green. The ancient scooter heaved under its heavy burden as the man struggled to get it moving again, aiding it by pushing along the ground with his feet. And then, for a few heart-stopping moments, the scooter wobbled dangerously as the man fought to keep the forces of gravity at bay, his face a mask of concentration. But then the scooter picked up speed, its stance steadied somewhat and the moment of danger was past. The man’s legs came back to their resting position on the scooter, and the scooter continued to phut-phut its way to its destination, keeping close to the pavement at all times, the family maintaining their dignity as they were overtaken by all vehicles, big and small alike….
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