Free Type-II: Memories Of My First House by Abhilash Gaur

shaving in his balcony,
enjoying his leisure. But he kept his pride in check for our sake.
For me, a scooter ride was a rare treat and I enjoyed it. I would
stand on the footboard, the officer’s son would sit on the seat
behind papa, and off we would go.
    Papa used to pick
me from school in the afternoon, for which he had to finish lunch,
rush to the school and drop me home, all in the space of half an
hour. On a cycle. And then, in the evening, after office, he cycled
or walked to the market on household chores. I know he didn’t have
the physical strength to do it, but his reserve of will power was
outstanding. I couldn’t have done it.
    ***

Our Own Scooter
    One winter
afternoon, as I stood in the school porch waiting for papa, he
walked in through the gate smiling. I held his hand—I was in
UKG—and skipped along. Just outside the gate stood a white Vijai DL
(deluxe) scooter that I had never seen before. It certainly did not
belong to any of his seniors whose children were in my school. I
looked inquisitively at papa and heard what I wished to hear. It
was OUR scooter. I was so happy that day, I was on top of the world
and mummy couldn’t make me sit down to do my homework.
    The scooter wasn’t
new but it looked good. The paint was clean. Below the rear
numberplate were stuck the letters SC Jain. Father had the same
initials, only he was Sharma, SC Sharma. He never removed the
previous owner’s name although we kept the scooter for more than 10
years, selling it off at the end of 1992. The scooter had been in
an accident and its engine mounting was damaged. Papa knew this
when he paid Rs 4,000 to buy it. But it always remained an
unpredictable steed. We used to park it in our cycle garage on the
ground floor. Unlike the new Bajaj Chetak that replaced it, the
Vijai had separate keys for handle release and ignition (the Bajaj
didn’t have an ignition key, only an engine kill switch), and I
remember one of them was wider and shone yellow where its nickel
plating had come off.
    We used the
scooter occasionally because petrol, no matter how cheap in those
days, was still an indulgence for our family. On Sundays, when we
had to go out somewhere, papa would get it running first. I
followed him at his heels because it took me no time at all to get
dressed up. I had only two pairs of shoes—the white fleets were
exclusively for school on Wednesdays and the black leather shoes
were for school on the other five days and everything else.
    Papa tried
starting up the scooter with silent apprehension. It was understood
that it could not start on the first two kicks. If it started on
the third, we both smiled silent congratulations at each other.
There was pride mingled with relief in those smiles. But more
often, it didn’t start. Fifth kick, sixth, tenth... Papa would
fiddle with the controls, sniff to see if the mixture was
over-rich, turn off the fuel supply and continue. Usually, by the
time mummy and my sister came down, it was running. And papa nodded
reassuringly at them as he caught his breath after the workout. His
manner was apologetic, as if saying, I know it’s embarrassing but I
didn’t let you down, did I?
    But there were
also times when the scooter didn’t start at all. Then the side
panels had to come off and papa had to get his hands dirty. Those
were thick, heavy panels, designed to survive more than a knock. At
the bottom, the steel curved inward to prevent the user from
nicking their fingers on it. Unlike the Bajaj, it also didn’t have
indicators built into the panels, but then indicators hadn’t been
made compulsory in the era when it was made. Our Bajaj Chetak came
to life after a stiff kick with a snappy ‘wheee’. But the old Vijai
would raise hopes with a grrRRRrrrRRrrr, and then die. If you
gunned the motor too early it stopped. If you didn’t rev it up in
time, it stopped. It was a very engaging machine. Yet I loved it. I
was never so proud of my first car as I was of it.
    One