Author: Sanjitha Ravi
I had a tricycle when I was three years old. It used to be in my grandparents’ house. It was mostly green and had multi-coloured wheels. Peddling as fast I could, feeling the wind on my face made me happy in a way nothing had before. I felt free.
I got my first bicycle when I was nine years old. I’d gotten all A1s; it was a good day. The bicycle was blue and gold in colour and not at all what I liked. I never rode it; it just didn’t fit. My father ended up giving it away because it was wasted on a kid who didn’t appreciate it.
I got my second bicycle when I was eleven years old. The boy I liked rode his bicycle to school and that made me want to learn to ride one. It was black, white and red in colour and everything I wanted. No one had to teach me to ride that bicycle. The wall was my only support and no matter how many times I scraped my elbow or fell down, I always got back on it. One day, I found my balance. I rode that bicycle to different places, mostly without my parents’ knowledge. It was our little secret. The wind was in my face, and I felt that happiness all over again. I even rode it to school, because it was what the cool kids did.
4 years down the line, my father left and we had to move our things from what was home. We didn’t have a place to put it all in, so we put them at an auction house. I couldn’t stand in that room as the remains what used to be came out screaming at me, making it unbearable.
I ran outside, only to see my black, white and red bicycle standing there, all alone. It looked at me like friends look at each other on the last day of school. As my mom pulled out of that place, I looked through the window at my best friend for the very last time, and with it, bid farewell to a life that wasn’t mine anymore.
I took a deep breath that day; and it feels like I’m still holding it in, three years later.