I remember being very young when
my father walked in during a midsummer afternoon and declared, “Wake up, you
got to learn cycling from today.” He held my hand and I followed him to a local
bicycle mechanic’s shop. I remember the mechanic only by his first name –
Abdul. His physical features were uncanny with a hairstyle that could inspire
many hilarious characters for a comic strip. His jawline was peculiar, seemed a
little misaligned and he broke into a smile every now and then. My father chose
a bicycle for me, a maroon colored mini cycle of Atlas make; strong and
sturdy, inviting. We made our way to the adjacent playground. My father gave me
some basic instructions about how to pedal, maintain balance, take control of
the handle bar and switch between looking upward, downward. As I sat on the
bicycle, I told myself, “This looks pretty easy.” My father released a gentle
smile and I started pedaling. I might have gone a little ahead when I lost
balance, hugged the ground and smeared with red mud. The children playing
nearby rushed to my rescue but, my father discouraged them and walked closer to
where I was lying helplessly; now staring at the rude blue sky.
My father asked, “What happened?
Why aren’t you getting up?”
I defended, “I can’t. This is not
my cup of tea. Look at me, I am all so dirty.”
My father, now having raised his
volume slightly warned, “You learn it this way or never.”
Seeing my adamant behaviour, my
father didn’t press me further and let me tread on my own. For more than a week
and less than a month, I didn’t ever head to Abdul’s shop to hire a bicycle to
start learning bicycling. I was mocked by my friends. Some of them showed their
compassion while others simply decided to give me a miss. My mom stood by me;
she opened the door, pushed a note of Rs 5 deep in my palm and warned, “You are
not returning today without learning. Make the world stop laughing at you or I
will make sure that you learn it my way.” Shuddering and breathing heavily
beneath the threat, I rushed to Abdul’s shop, grabbed the same bicycle and was
back on the playground. This time, Abdul had a little mercy on me; he
accompanied me to the playground and promised to not let me lose my balance.
Abdul’s assurance made me feel confident and I started pedaling. I pedaled for
quite some time, turned my head to see that Abdul was long gone. My heart sank
and I hit the ground instantly. I was so outraged that I felt like pelting a
stone at Abdul, breaking his misaligned jawline and make him suffer for life. Before
I could set my thoughts into action, Abdul came rushing; he helped me gain my
posture back and said, “Good job. Next time, you should pedal more, fall
without worrying and start cycling again.”
Abdul’s words kept echoing in my ears.
I returned home valorously. The story that I built around my learning
experience seemed to have no end. I kept repeating the same to my mom and she
kept smiling. After some while, my father debuted right in the middle of the
story and doubted everything that I padded up to support the core of it. Next
morning, he promised to accompany me to Abdul’s shop and verify my claims.
As the sun rose, my heart cursed
the morning; on a nasty front, I also prayed for an earthquake and a heavy
downpour to thwart my Bicycle Training Programme. But God seemed to be on leave
too. Abdul happily let the bicycle go; he accepted my father’s bet that if I
don’t fall, he will not charge us a penny. The pressure was mounting. As I took
control of the bicycle, my mother’s words echoed again, “You are not returning
today without learning. Make the world stop laughing at you or I will make sure
that you learn it my way.” I looked into my father’s eyes and he seemed to be
communicating silently to me, “Son, don’t make me say what I said that day.
Prove me wrong. Don’t let me should at you, pushing you to learn it this way or
never.” After a while, he yelled, “Pedal. Whom are you waiting for? Go ride. If
you fall, get your ass up and ride again. Or else, I am never going to pay for
your bicycle practice.”
Some of his words might have been
negative but they had a positive connotation. Being a father, he didn’t want
his son to fail. My mother didn’t want her child to fail. On the tad end I saw
Abdul, being an entrepreneur, he too was betting his luck on me and somehow I
felt, he wanted to lose out on that small bet of Rs. 5; he longed to see me
succeed.
I started pedaling, I
temporarily lost the balance and then regained my composure. In a matter of 45
minutes, I had completed taking five rounds of the playground that had treated
me like a loser. In the sixth round, I fell off the bicycle. But my father ran
to my rescue. His single word for that moment, “Finally.” Abdul let out a sigh
of relief and when we returned home, my father had a story to narrate. I was
the listener this time. My father told it the way the events took place. He
didn’t pad up a single thing. Abdul found a momentary mention too. My mother
stared deep into my eyes, drew me closer, hugged me tightly and said, “Didn’t I
tell you I will make you learn my way?”
Emanuel James "Jim"
Rohn was an American entrepreneur, author and motivational speaker had once
remarked rightly – Motivation is what gets you started. Habit is what keeps you
going.
My only regret is; people around the
world have suddenly stopped motivating and have started taking keen interesting
in conspiring. Thankfully I will hold on to my ground to continue being a
motivator for those who need my help and my timely advice.
-Virtuous Vociferous
PS: My father was a person of few
words but he had the strength to bend a mind. I am unaware about Abdul’s
whereabouts but, I am sure he meant everything he said. My mother still
continues to be my source of constant inspiration.
