The Prize.

Featuring:

The Bicycle; and

The Family.

Daddy Strongest bought me a bicycle, the best there was. It was a ‘chopper’[1]. The only hitch was, I did not know how to ride a bicycle- so I wheeled it all the way home from the shop, a distance of about 3.5 kilometers. I entered the small dirt and pebbled lane leading towards home and found the neighbourhood children lined up tidily in an honour guard. The guard was a fleeting honour as the neighbourhood children quickly dispersed, miffed that I would not let them near.

Sister Sweetest took one look at the bicycle and with a look of disgust on her beautiful face proclaimed that no girl should ever have to ride one- she, with great feeling, stated that she would never want her clothes and nails ruined! Why only clothes and nails? In my excitement though, I forgot to dwell further on that mystery.

Mother Dearest would not permit me to park the bicycle in the bedroom. A compromise was reached and a spot was found inside the living room – I could still see it from the bedroom if the bedroom door was left open and if I exchanged my sleeping spot with Sister Sweetest.

I would carefully wheel out the bicycle everyday and walk alongside it, up and down the small dirt and pebbled lane leading towards home. After about a week of walking the bicycle daily and knowing that this exercise would no longer pass muster with the neighbourhood children as some sort of an exotic ritual, I mustered up enough courage to sit on its beautiful long seat. I tentatively pedaled and promptly lost control of my arms, legs and ofcourse the bicycle.

I looked up to see the neighbourhood children solemnly peering down at me. The bicycle and I lay inside the storm water drain that flowed alongside the small dirt and pebbled lane leading towards home. I scrambled out of the storm water drain before the water carried us away, wet and a little shook up; the bicycle seemed to have survived without damage. I brushed the neighbourhood children aside quickly, embarrassed ofcourse but already worrying that Mother Dearest would be upset at the extra work of having to clean us both up! Some consolation came in the form of a small fish lodged in my shirt pocket, which I presented to Mother Dearest as a peace offering.

I did not wheel out the bicycle for the next two days until Daddy Strongest sat me down and explained certain life’s lessons to me. The next day on, not only was I pedaling the bicycle, I was flying! I thus sallied forth into a hitherto unknown world filled with adventure.

Some distance away from our home in the quaint little town in Assam, was a derelict hut set on a fairly large piece of land amidst overgrown bushes and large trees; a bamboo fence and a bamboo gate served as a silent warning for humans to keep out. We would pass by it during our excursions in the family car. I was always curious about it but nobody said much. Now that I had a bicycle, perhaps I could go take a look? J wanted to accompany me when I laid out my plans but she did not have a bicycle and it was too far to travel on two legs (remember J?). I went alone.

The bamboo gate creaked open as I pushed at it. I wheeled the bicycle in. The air was strangely still and there was a dark forbidding feel to the place. I could feel my heart start to hammer, I went on. I parked the bicycle by a large tree and picked up a stout sturdy stick, always my weapon of choice.

The front door of the derelict hut was broken and swaying on its hinges. It was darker inside- the only light came from a hole in the thatched roof. I pulled out my small yellow plastic torch, a gift from Mother Dearest the last birthday (I had begged for a torch- most of my favourite Enid Blyton characters always carried torches, with spare batteries- I did not have spare batteries though!).

The inside of the derelict hut smelled damp and the mud floor was littered with rotten leaves and bird droppings. Much to my disappointment, there was only one room to explore. I kept a wary eye out for snakes. I poked around a bit and then made to leave when my stout sturdy stick struck something with a muffled clang. I set my small yellow plastic torch on the mud floor, cleared the area and dug out a tin box, a small battered tin box.

It was growing dark outside. I put the tin box inside my shirt and rode awkwardly home.

At Mother Dearest’s insistence, Daddy Strongest opened the tin box outside home. Three pairs of eyes peered over his shoulders as he forced open the lid. A dirty rotting pouch had been stuffed into the tin box. Daddy Strongest gingerly lifted the pouch and a bunch of strange looking metal discs fell out with a jangle. Old coins, very old coins, Daddy Strongest exclaimed! After much discussion between Daddy Strongest and Mother Dearest, it was decided that the coins would be handed over to the district government; Daddy Strongest had friends there. I was too tired to argue.

The next day, Daddy Strongest and I set out to the office of the district government. We handed over the coins, which were carefully counted; they had no need for the tin box they said, so I took it back home.

Some days later, The Family was invited as special guests to a public viewing of the now cleaned and catalogued coins. We were duly acknowledged by the people milling about. As we were about to leave, I heard my name over a loudspeaker. I walked up to the lectern and amidst scattered applause handed an envelope, a prize! The envelope contained a 5 rupees note.

Postscript: Many years later, Niece Adorable found a 5 rupees note in a tin box tucked away in a far corner of her Aunt’s cupboard. I suppose The Prize is now for her to keep.

[1] The other terms used to describe that particular bicycle model or parts thereof include ‘banana seat’, ‘sissy back’ and ‘butterfly handlebars’- for obvious reasons, I prefer the term ‘Chopper’!