Part of Us
My papa was peculiarly proud of it.
Owning every Indian household favorite-Bajaj Chetak.
His enduring bond with that inanimate object was always animated.
Mounting the humble-looking machine he scurried away to work.
As a child, the evenings were always intriguing for me
As I used to wait to hear the sound of the young-sturdy scooter,
Only to tell mummy of his valor arrival.
With the years passing,
Mountain of memories built up.
With me and my brother sitting the other way round,
Holding the rear tyre screwed tightly,
Making it awkwardly pleasant for others driving behind my father.
Papa fumed with pride
When we the family of four, securing the luggage
Initiated first long travel to grandma’s on the legend.
With no breakdowns, he had set a GuinnessFamily record.
Another occasion rose up
Where my brother tried to ride it.
And went straight in the bush.
But both robust bodies did not let the young child hurt.
Papa had already invested his soul
in the bright navy blue machine,
having a unique gravelly strapping voice.
And, we knew it was a part of us.
Strangely the Chetak never left our side,
Even when its mechanism failed to go on.
