Syed Majid Gilani
Some memories of childhood remain with us for life. Years pass, places change and people move on, but a small incident can suddenly take us back to those days.
For me, one such memory is of my first big bicycle—a red Atlas. I was in the 6th standard. Before that, I had enjoyed the small tricycles and bicycles my father had bought for me. I had spent many happy hours riding them. But as I grew older, I started wanting a proper bicycle.
The funny part was that I had never even ridden a big bicycle. I did not know how to balance it or how to start riding one. But that did not stop me. I wanted one badly and kept telling my family about my wish.
Those were simple days. Like many children, I had a small clay piggy pot. Whenever I received a few coins or some small amount of money, I put it into the pot. Slowly, my savings grew.
One morning, I took the clay pot to my grandfather, whom we lovingly called Abaji. I told him that I wanted to break the pot and use the money to buy my bicycle.
Abaji told me not to break it. He said he would buy the bicycle for me from his own pocket. But I did not agree. I insisted that I wanted to use my own savings. Finally, Abaji gave in.
He took a small hammer and broke the clay pot. The coins and notes scattered around. I sat down and started collecting them. I separated the 10, 20, 25 and 50-paisa coins and the one-rupee coins into different piles. Abaji counted the notes.
We found that I had saved about Rs 250. I was very happy. Those coins were special to me because I had collected them slowly, little by little. I felt proud that I had something of my own to contribute towards the bicycle.
Abaji then took me in a local bus towards a cycle shop. I still remember Neelam Cinema, its cinema hoardings and the surroundings of those days. Opposite the cinema was a big bicycle shop. Perhaps it was Haji Amir Joo & Sons, though I do not exactly remember the name now.
I looked at many bicycles. Finally, Abaji bought me a medium-sized red Atlas bicycle. I remember its price being around Rs 850. I had saved Rs 250, and Abaji paid the remaining Rs 600 from his own pocket.
After buying the bicycle, Abaji took me to a tea shop near his old office, Shaali Store, now the Food, Civil Supplies & Consumer Affairs department. We had samosas and tea there. I do not remember the exact amount we paid, but that small meal has remained in my memory.
I also got a lock for the bicycle. The new bicycle was very precious to me, and whenever I left it somewhere, I made sure it was locked.
There was only one problem. I had a bicycle, but I did not know how to ride it. Abaji helped me sit on the bicycle and hold the handle. He walked beside me, guiding me as we slowly made our way through the Eidgah side towards our cherished home in Lalbazar.
On the way, he bought me a pista ice cream bar from an ice-cream rehri wala. The pista bar cost Rs 2, which was a rare luxury in those days.
At last, we reached home. I was extremely happy. To me, it was not just a bicycle. I felt as if I had bought a helicopter.
Papa had returned from his office. I immediately told him, “Papa, you always carry me on your Lambretta scooter. Now I will go everywhere on my own bicycle.” He laughed and hugged me.
Within two or three days, my younger sister Yasmeen and I had learnt to ride the bicycle properly. Soon, riding became part of our everyday life.
Of course, learning to ride was not always easy. I fell from the bicycle many times. Sometimes I got cuts and bruises, and at times there was blood from a wound. But after some time, we would get up, wipe ourselves and start riding again.
That was childhood. We fell, got hurt and continued. The bicycle also taught us to take care of our belongings. A puncture, a loose chain, broken brakes or any other damaged part was noticed immediately. If a bicycle was damaged because of careless riding, the parents would pay for the repair, but the child would also receive a good scolding.
We did not always like those words. But slowly, we understood their meaning. Things cost money. When parents spent their hard-earned money repairing something we had damaged through carelessness, we learned to be more careful.
Lalbazar was very different in those days. There were very few people on the streets and much less traffic. The orchard lands were still open, and we had plenty of space to ride and play.
We rode through those quiet streets. The bicycle gave us a sense of freedom that was difficult to explain.
Looking back now, I sometimes think about that little clay piggy pot. At that time, I thought Abaji allowed me to break it only because I insisted. Today, I feel there may have been something more.
He could have bought the bicycle himself. He had already offered to do so. But he allowed me to use my own savings.
He never gave me a long lecture about valuing things. He simply let me break the pot, collect the coins and count what I had saved. Then he paid the rest. That simple act taught me a lesson I understood much better as I grew older. When we save for something and contribute towards getting it, we value it more.
Years have passed. The bicycle is no more. The little lock is also gone. Lalbazar has changed, the open orchard lands have disappeared, and the quiet streets of my childhood are no longer the same.
But the memory of that red Atlas remains clear. I can still see Abaji breaking the clay pot with his small hammer, the coins scattered on the floor, and myself separating them into different piles. I can still remember sitting with Abaji in that tea shop, having samosa and tea after buying the bicycle. And I can still hear myself telling Papa that I would now go everywhere on my own bicycle.
That red Atlas carried much more than a boy on its seat. It carried my little savings, Abaji’s love, Papa’s laughter, Yasmeen’s company, the falls and bruises, the scoldings and repairs, and the freedom of those simple childhood days.
For a boy in the 6th standard, it was not just a bicycle. It was my little helicopter. And perhaps that is why, after all these years, I can still see it so clearly in my mind.
Syed Majid Gilani is a Storyteller, Opinion Writer and a Government Officer. He writes on family, faith, nostalgia, betrayal, resilience, and moral values. He can be contacted at syedmajid6676@gmail.com.
