my bike my rules

Riding a bike is an exhilarating experience. Ever since the time I got my first cycle I have been on my own on road. From the simple BSA SLR, lady bird to the boisterous activa I love riding bikes. The thrill of skipping signals, the pleasure of carrying someone behind, the pride that comes with owning a bike. I love it all.

When i was at office it becomes too late at times. It's 1:00 am, 3:00 am or even 4 in the morning somedays. Even in those wee hours I prefer to be on my own. I would rather trust my activa than rely on my office cab. My activa gives me freedom, power, independence and pride. My pride doesn't allow me to go piggy backing on someone else's bike. It is always me on my activa.

Is it always fun to ride a bike? I recently discovered that the answer is 'no'. Because I could ride, I was a driver for my mom's shopping; I have to drop my sister at school when her auto driver does not turn up; I will be called by my mother for pick ups n drops. I had no better role than a mere poor driver. And I cannot refuse any of this.

Yesterday we hosted a function at our college. By college rules we are not allowed to take our bikes inside the college campus. But because of his function one bike was given a special permission. I envied it Cause I had always wanted to ride my activa through the tree covered college roads. Due to some reasons we had to go to a shop inside our college along with my friend and event co-ordinator Hema. She said there was not much time to go all way by walk and urged me to take that special bike. After much persuasion and struggle we got the bike and I was about to start ignition when Hema took the wheel and said sit back. I was not ready for this but I didn't protest. The moment I said I had a totally different feeling. As the bike vroomed through the roads I started liking the ride. For a change i was riding without responsibility, without tension, looking around me in all directions like a kid, enjoying the changing scenes around me, smiling sillyly at people we passed. Felt Freedom had a different meaning altogether. Slowly I wrapped my arms around my friend and rested my head on her back silently wishing this would last long. Just then we reached the shop and my freedom was lost.

The Granny Genes

All grandmothers are sweet; as sweet as the delicacies they make. A lot is said and written about the endearing bond between girls and their grannies. With God’s grace I too was gifted to be brought up under the love and affection of my maternal grandmother. With my mother working, a college professor, I got to spend all my formative years under my grandma. She is close to touching 90 and in the pink of her health. Touch wood!

There is a striking difference in the extent of liberty that children get from parents and grandparents. Rather it is this high dose of freedom, pampering and fuss that makes children attach close to grandparents. Often my grandma comes down to city to stay with us. Though the urban jungle is not much to her liking she stays with us because of my pestering.

When my grandma is at home she is the sole proprietor of our food needs. Even kitchen utensils seem to work indulgently at her command. She is better acquainted with the provisions stock and has a keener sense of which fruit in the fridge would do best for evening snack and which fruit is going to go bad before consumption. Her cooking skills are the best. The aroma from her dishes invites our neighbours all harrowing into our house for receipes. Come summer and the varieties of her pickles leave me taking an extra serving of food.

Till I went to college she fed me my breakfast. As I run from room to room scrambling through books and papers, getting ready for my college bus, she unquestioningly follows me with plate and dosa. I can only contrast this to my mother who would rather ask me to eat at the college canteen than run around and feed me in the morning.

The contrast doesn't stop there. With my mother, I ask her once, remind her twice and beg her once more to give me something to munch. But with my grandma, lest I should ask, she makes a snack every evening and serves me first, right from the pan. If I praise her dish a little too lavish she will see to that I eat up her share too.

No, I don’t blame my mother. It’s all to do with grandmother genes. My very own mother wears a different role when her grandson is at home. My elder sister’s son, mischievous and naughty, is all that takes my mother to become a pampering grandma. When the little boy is at home, my mother’s entire attention is directed towards him. She instantly becomes interested in cooking and becomes miraculously active for running around the house chasing him with dosa. Strange, what grandmother genes can do to mothers!