It was a very fine day, recollecting the untold stories of unfolded past. A past, full of fantasies for the unseen future, glory of all the win(s) and knowledgeable failures. 

Suddenly, walking the staircase I saw a bicycle. All greased up as if the rider’s gonna take over the world on those two wheels. Beautifully imprinted stickers of cartoons, a plastic basket attached in front of the cycle seemed as a trophy bearer of the rider! 

I could imagine the owner of that dancing greased motorised bicycle. A cycle meant for a 8-11 years old kid, all dressed up for a cycle tour, knew tightly padded with a sponge guard, head geared up with a jockstrap, an aspiration to take over those airy tyres. I could imagine how the kid would’ve learnt his/her first cycle ride. 

A support which can’t be gained with those metalled supports. A father’s push to ride a bicycle is all a kid needs to master over those 2 wheels &a later 4 – wheelers. A push to roll on the concrete and become a rolling stone with no ties to the contested & soil, a push to chase time &a speed, a push for a support to catch the butterflies in the green fields , a push to enroll in an uncertain mad race… 


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