Aryaman was getting late for school. The bus was due any minute. But Prithwish, Sanjukta and Aryaman had all left an important task ignored — until Monday morning arrived. The school trip to New Delhi for Republic Day celebrations was just a week away and Aryaman was yet to make a note of his height. The school was organising fancy costumes for the Delhi-bound pupils, for which waist-sizes and heights had to be jotted down in the school diary. The waist-size wasn’t an issue as the school uniform trouser served as a ready-reckoner. But the height bit was turning out to be tricky and both the parents, Sanjukta and Prithwish, were passing the task to each other for the last few days. A measuring tape? Or the ruler in Aryaman’s school bag? They just couldn’t make up their minds and in the weekend hubbub, it was all forgotten.
Meanwhile, Aryaman just wanted to get over it. “Papa, let me stand next to the dining table and then you can put a mark on the wall at the tip of my head. Next, I’ll get you the ruler and you can just finish it in seconds,” an impatient Aryaman suggested.
Makes sense, Prithwish thought. As Aryaman stood against the wall, Prithwish armed himself with a pencil. But he stopped, his mind suddenly racing back 35 summers.
It had always been a dream. “My own bicycle” ... the blood would race in his veins as he uttered those words for the umpteenth time! He desperately wanted a bicycle for himself. It was that quintessential object of desire that had allowed the other boys in the neighbourhood to ‘rule’ those pot-holed roads with such gusto that Prithwish was made to feel like a lesser mortal — sulking on the sidelines — every time his peers went on a joyride.
Prithwish’s father was dead against a cycle — certainly not on those bumpy, treacherous stretches, devoid of even a modest coating of asphalt. And there had been several accidents in the recent past.
The rider
Prithwish’s only hope was Sanjay mama (maternal uncle) — the one with a patient ear and a generous purse for all that Prithwish would love to indulge in. Prithwish sheepishly broached the topic when Sanjay dropped in for a Sunday lunch.
“Consider it done,” assured Sanjay. But aware of Prithwish’s father’s dislike for two-wheelers, he promptly slipped in a rider. Sanjay made Prithwish stand against the wall next to the divan in the living room and put a mark with his thumb nail, way above Prithwish’s head, and said: “Look, I have to make sure that I get you the right type of cycle. For that, you ought to be of a certain height. So, just keep checking your height against that mark and let me know once we are ‘there’.”
A bit disappointed initially, Prithwish, however, found solace in a new vocation. Every afternoon, after returning from school, he would stand against the wall and ask his mother to check how far up the ‘mark’ was. It became an obsession.
Months passed and the seven-year-old kept inching closer to the scratch on the wall — his joy and excitement swelling up. He was almost there, he thought.
Soon, it was time for the winter break. Prithwish and her mother packed their bags and were off to Prithwish’s maternal grandparents’ home in Santiniketan. About four weeks later, upon returning home, Prithwish ran into the living room, first up. He had to check on the ‘mark’.
But lo and behold. The faded distemper blue on the walls had been replaced with a bright, shiny lemon yellow. The whole house had been repainted, a usual four-yearly practice. Every spot of damp and dirt had been neatly erased — including that ‘mark’ on the wall! Tears rolled down Prithwish’s eyes. The cycle remained a pipe dream.
“Will you keep staring at the wall or what? Just get going, Papa,” Aryaman thundered, forcing Prithwish to crash-land back into reality.
“Forget about your height ... your school uniform shirt should be a good enough measure,” Prithwish reasoned with his son, with the yellow bus honking aloud for the third time in quick succession, just around the kerb.
