13-08-2026, 10:22 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-09-2026, 02:13 PM by Authorsunny. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 13.5 – Bike day
20 November 2025 – Thursday
The morning light came in through the grill and fell across the bed in a thin grey strip. I woke up. celebrations was just around the corner, so I took a few days off from work, combining it with the festival holidays to get a nice long break. Ma was already dressed. She had chosen a simple yellow salwar kameez with a thin red dupatta, the kind of outfit she used to wear when she still went to the parlour on days she wanted to look neat but not loud. Her hair was tied in a low plait. The silver bracelet sat on her wrist. The faint perfume she now used every day was already in the air.
She looked at me when I sat up.
“Get ready. We should leave by ten. The dealer is expecting us at eleven.”
Her voice was practical, almost brisk, but there was something else under it — a quiet satisfaction, the kind she used to have when she managed to buy me a new college bag or a pair of shoes after carefully counting notes at the end of the month.
I washed, changed into a clean shirt and jeans, and came out. She handed me a steel glass of tea and a two-subject notebook in which she had written the exact model number, colour preference, and the file number the dealer had given her over the phone the previous evening.
“Black is better,” she said while I drank the tea. “It does not show dust as much. I also checked their service center is on the way to your office. All the way more better”
She had checked. The same woman who once calculated the exact number of rotis that could be made from one kilo of flour so that nothing was wasted had now checked service centre locations and colour practicality for a bike that cost nearly a lakh.
We left at ten-ten. The auto ride to the showroom in Andheri West took almost forty minutes in the late-morning traffic. She sat beside me with her shoulder lightly touching mine. Once or twice she looked out of the auto and then back at me, as if measuring my face for excitement or resistance. I kept my expression as neutral as I could.
The showroom was bright, air-conditioned, and smelled of new rubber and polish. A salesman in a light blue shirt recognised her voice immediately when she spoke. He had clearly been briefed.
“Sharma ji, please come. Everything is ready. The bike is in the bay. Papers are printed.”
Ma nodded once, the small nod she used when she wanted things to move without unnecessary talk. We were taken to a small cabin. The bike stood a few metres away on the showroom floor — black, clean, the plastic still on the seat and the mirrors.
I walked around it once. Ma stood a little behind me, watching my face more than the machine.
“Sit on it,” she said quietly.
I sat. The seat was firm. The handlebar sat at a comfortable height. For a moment the showroom noise faded and I felt only the strange, private thrill of something that was about to become mine. Then the other knowledge returned — the source of the money, the ease with which it had been arranged, the man who had transferred the amount without asking for photographs or receipts in front of me — and the thrill sat together with something heavier.
Ma came and stood beside the front wheel. She touched the side mirror lightly with one finger.
“It suits you,” she said. “You look mature sitting on it. Like someone who has already started his life.”
The salesman brought the file. Papers were signed. Ma sat beside me. She asked two questions about the warranty and the first service. Her voice was polite but firm. The salesman answered carefully. At one point he glanced at her, then at me, as if trying to understand the exact relationship of authority between us. She did not explain. She simply continued reading.
When the final form was signed she took out her phone, checked something, and then looked at the salesman.
“The balance payment has already been transferred from the account I mentioned yesterday. Please confirm.”
He checked his system, nodded, and said the amount was received in full. No loan documents. No EMI schedule. Clean.
Ma stood up.
“We will take it now. My son will ride it home. Please remove the plastic and give the helmets and other accessories.”
Fifteen minutes later I was astride the black bike outside the showroom, a new helmet on my head. Ma stood on the footpath with her handbag, the red dupatta slightly lifted by the breeze. She looked at me for a long moment.
“Congratulations beta. Muaaahhh” she gave me a kiss on my forehead and looked at me. “Don't think. Enjoy your bike, but go slow on the first ride. I will come in an auto.”
“Thank you Ma.” I say with genuine admiration. “You don’t want to sit on the back?”
She smiled, a small real smile that reached her eyes.
“Not today. Today you should ride it alone first. Feel it.”
She turned and raised her hand for an auto. I watched her climb in, adjust her dupatta, and give the driver our building name. Then I pressed the starter.
The engine came alive with a clean, low sound. I rode slowly through the Andheri lanes, getting used to the weight, the gear, the way the bike leaned into turns. Every time I stopped at a light I felt the dual truth of the machine under me: it was mine, and it had arrived through a route I had not chosen. The wind on my face was real. The helmet strap against my chin was real. The knowledge of Azad bhai's money sitting quietly inside the engine was also real.
I reached the building after twenty minutes. The watchman came out and walked around the bike once, nodding with the half-smile of a man who had seen many new vehicles arrive in the lane over the years. I parked it under the partial shade near the stairwell and removed the helmet. My hair was flattened. My palms smelled of new rubber and clutch lever.
Ma’s auto stopped a little later. She stepped out, paid the driver, and walked straight to the bike. She did not touch it at first. She simply stood and looked at it, then at me.
“You rode carefully?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied, and then did something she had not done in a long time. She reached up and smoothed my hair where the helmet had pressed it down, the same gesture she used when I came home from college with a sweaty forehead.
“Come upstairs. I will make fresh tea. Then we will talk properly.”
Inside the house she moved with a quiet energy I had not seen in weeks. She lit the stove, boiled water, added tea leaves and ginger the way I liked it. While the tea simmered she opened the small steel box in which she kept important papers and filed the temporary registration and insurance copies carefully. Only after the tea was poured and placed on the folding table did she sit opposite me and really look at me.
“Tell me the truth,” she said. “When you were riding, what was in your head?”
I wrapped my hands around the steel glass.
“Both things. The happiness of having it. And the other knowledge.”
She did not pretend not to understand.
“The other knowledge will stay for some time. I am not asking you to erase it. I am asking you to keep it in the second place. The first place belongs to the fact that your mother wanted you to have this and made sure you got it. Can you do that?”
“I am trying.”
“Trying is not enough today. Today you will decide. The bike is downstairs. It is in your name. You will ride it to office from tomorrow. Every time you start the engine you will remember that I stood in that showroom beside you. That memory has to be stronger than the other one. If it is not, then the bike will become a weight instead of a help. I did not arrange it so that it could become a weight.”
20 November 2025 – Thursday
The morning light came in through the grill and fell across the bed in a thin grey strip. I woke up. celebrations was just around the corner, so I took a few days off from work, combining it with the festival holidays to get a nice long break. Ma was already dressed. She had chosen a simple yellow salwar kameez with a thin red dupatta, the kind of outfit she used to wear when she still went to the parlour on days she wanted to look neat but not loud. Her hair was tied in a low plait. The silver bracelet sat on her wrist. The faint perfume she now used every day was already in the air.
She looked at me when I sat up.
“Get ready. We should leave by ten. The dealer is expecting us at eleven.”
Her voice was practical, almost brisk, but there was something else under it — a quiet satisfaction, the kind she used to have when she managed to buy me a new college bag or a pair of shoes after carefully counting notes at the end of the month.
I washed, changed into a clean shirt and jeans, and came out. She handed me a steel glass of tea and a two-subject notebook in which she had written the exact model number, colour preference, and the file number the dealer had given her over the phone the previous evening.
“Black is better,” she said while I drank the tea. “It does not show dust as much. I also checked their service center is on the way to your office. All the way more better”
She had checked. The same woman who once calculated the exact number of rotis that could be made from one kilo of flour so that nothing was wasted had now checked service centre locations and colour practicality for a bike that cost nearly a lakh.
We left at ten-ten. The auto ride to the showroom in Andheri West took almost forty minutes in the late-morning traffic. She sat beside me with her shoulder lightly touching mine. Once or twice she looked out of the auto and then back at me, as if measuring my face for excitement or resistance. I kept my expression as neutral as I could.
The showroom was bright, air-conditioned, and smelled of new rubber and polish. A salesman in a light blue shirt recognised her voice immediately when she spoke. He had clearly been briefed.
“Sharma ji, please come. Everything is ready. The bike is in the bay. Papers are printed.”
Ma nodded once, the small nod she used when she wanted things to move without unnecessary talk. We were taken to a small cabin. The bike stood a few metres away on the showroom floor — black, clean, the plastic still on the seat and the mirrors.
I walked around it once. Ma stood a little behind me, watching my face more than the machine.
“Sit on it,” she said quietly.
I sat. The seat was firm. The handlebar sat at a comfortable height. For a moment the showroom noise faded and I felt only the strange, private thrill of something that was about to become mine. Then the other knowledge returned — the source of the money, the ease with which it had been arranged, the man who had transferred the amount without asking for photographs or receipts in front of me — and the thrill sat together with something heavier.
Ma came and stood beside the front wheel. She touched the side mirror lightly with one finger.
“It suits you,” she said. “You look mature sitting on it. Like someone who has already started his life.”
The salesman brought the file. Papers were signed. Ma sat beside me. She asked two questions about the warranty and the first service. Her voice was polite but firm. The salesman answered carefully. At one point he glanced at her, then at me, as if trying to understand the exact relationship of authority between us. She did not explain. She simply continued reading.
When the final form was signed she took out her phone, checked something, and then looked at the salesman.
“The balance payment has already been transferred from the account I mentioned yesterday. Please confirm.”
He checked his system, nodded, and said the amount was received in full. No loan documents. No EMI schedule. Clean.
Ma stood up.
“We will take it now. My son will ride it home. Please remove the plastic and give the helmets and other accessories.”
Fifteen minutes later I was astride the black bike outside the showroom, a new helmet on my head. Ma stood on the footpath with her handbag, the red dupatta slightly lifted by the breeze. She looked at me for a long moment.
“Congratulations beta. Muaaahhh” she gave me a kiss on my forehead and looked at me. “Don't think. Enjoy your bike, but go slow on the first ride. I will come in an auto.”
“Thank you Ma.” I say with genuine admiration. “You don’t want to sit on the back?”
She smiled, a small real smile that reached her eyes.
“Not today. Today you should ride it alone first. Feel it.”
She turned and raised her hand for an auto. I watched her climb in, adjust her dupatta, and give the driver our building name. Then I pressed the starter.
The engine came alive with a clean, low sound. I rode slowly through the Andheri lanes, getting used to the weight, the gear, the way the bike leaned into turns. Every time I stopped at a light I felt the dual truth of the machine under me: it was mine, and it had arrived through a route I had not chosen. The wind on my face was real. The helmet strap against my chin was real. The knowledge of Azad bhai's money sitting quietly inside the engine was also real.
I reached the building after twenty minutes. The watchman came out and walked around the bike once, nodding with the half-smile of a man who had seen many new vehicles arrive in the lane over the years. I parked it under the partial shade near the stairwell and removed the helmet. My hair was flattened. My palms smelled of new rubber and clutch lever.
Ma’s auto stopped a little later. She stepped out, paid the driver, and walked straight to the bike. She did not touch it at first. She simply stood and looked at it, then at me.
“You rode carefully?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied, and then did something she had not done in a long time. She reached up and smoothed my hair where the helmet had pressed it down, the same gesture she used when I came home from college with a sweaty forehead.
“Come upstairs. I will make fresh tea. Then we will talk properly.”
Inside the house she moved with a quiet energy I had not seen in weeks. She lit the stove, boiled water, added tea leaves and ginger the way I liked it. While the tea simmered she opened the small steel box in which she kept important papers and filed the temporary registration and insurance copies carefully. Only after the tea was poured and placed on the folding table did she sit opposite me and really look at me.
“Tell me the truth,” she said. “When you were riding, what was in your head?”
I wrapped my hands around the steel glass.
“Both things. The happiness of having it. And the other knowledge.”
She did not pretend not to understand.
“The other knowledge will stay for some time. I am not asking you to erase it. I am asking you to keep it in the second place. The first place belongs to the fact that your mother wanted you to have this and made sure you got it. Can you do that?”
“I am trying.”
“Trying is not enough today. Today you will decide. The bike is downstairs. It is in your name. You will ride it to office from tomorrow. Every time you start the engine you will remember that I stood in that showroom beside you. That memory has to be stronger than the other one. If it is not, then the bike will become a weight instead of a help. I did not arrange it so that it could become a weight.”
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