Growing Up

Some dreams fester for so long inside us that we fail to ever truly notice them. Unlike the big, loud and dramatic dreams, these ones just lie dormant and grow slowly through ordinary moments and unnoticed feelings. These dreams are not the ones people like to brag about. They just sit quietly in some remote corner of your heart until one day you realise that this one dream has outlived every other and fulfilling this one becomes the only thing you care about.

For me, As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to ride a bike.

Back then, life was simple. I grew up in a small town where roads were usually empty after sunset and nobody really cared if three boys were squeezed onto a single motorcycle. Early morning or late evenings, we would ride around for no reason at all. Back then we didn’t care about fuel economy or some Instagram worthy destination. We were simple kids and for the three of us, packed onto the seat which was meant for two, there was no tomorrow. Riding around in endless circles through familiar streets gave us a feeling we had never known before. Something about being on a bike made the world feel bigger and our problems feel smaller, even if we were just kids going nowhere.

By the time I reached class 11, asking for a bike had become a routine conversation at home. I knew he used to ride back when he was young himself, and I really wished he would get back into it post his retirement. I would bring it up whenever I could, but Dad would shut it down almost immediately. I could never figure out whether it was concern, practicality or just middle class parents being themselves, but every request and conversation about a new bike was brushed aside. Now that I am older and a bit wiser, I would like to believe that a new bike would have just added a whole new responsibility on their already burdened shoulders. But my teenage brain could never fathom this in a million years and I kept pestering him. Months later, after his retirement, unbeknownst to me he finally gave in and brought home a Honda Shine.

I still remember standing there looking at it like it was the biggest thing we had ever owned. For a school boy who used to hate early mornings, suddenly I had an added incentive to wake up. Before the rest of the house had even woken up, I would already be outside with the keys in my hand, taking the new bike to an empty ground nearby. After spending years sitting behind others as a pillion, I genuinely thought riding a bike would come naturally. But once I got on the saddle myself, I was no longer so confident in my abilities to ride one. I would nervously learn the clutch, stall, loose my balance, fall, and then try again. It took a lot more stalling and jerky gear shifts than I would like to admit, before I finally gathered the confidence to ride the bike beyond those empty grounds and onto actual roads.

That bike was everything for me. Little did I know that it meant a whole lot more for my dad than it did for me.

Dad had stopped riding years ago. So when, one day he casually asked me for the keys, I was a little surprised. Nonetheless, I handed him the keys to his bike and off he went. I thought that after so many years away from riding, he must have forgotten how to handle a motorcycle altogether. I could not have been more wrong. It took him a few moments to settle back into it. He started slow and cautious as he eased the bike down the road, but very quickly it was obvious, he had never really forgotten. Everything still felt natural to him, muscle memory we call it. The timing of the gear shifts, the smooth roll of the throttle, all of it came back little by little. A smile was clearly evident on his face now. It was like he was reliving a part of his life he had not visited in years.

He was a man who gave everything to us. Everything he earned and did went into us without a second thought. Maa would sometimes buy clothes for him because he simply wouldn’t and he’d just smile and say he didn’t need them. I think somewhere along the way, between all the responsibilities, the work, and spending his entire life taking care of us, he left parts of himself behind. The things he once enjoyed, the hobbies he may have loved, the version of himself that existed before becoming a father and provider, all of it seemed to have disappear under the weight of family responsibilities.

Life moved fast after that. I started earning too and for the first time getting my dream bike actually seemed possible. Life, however, had other plans. Over the years, I had managed to save enough to buy my dream bike three different times. But every single time, something else came first. There was always something more important. Through all this, I finally began to understand my dad a little better. I understood how a person slowly stops choosing himself and his selfish needs over the responsibilities that he now carries. We humans are inherently selfish beings, but when responsibilities take up all the space in our lives every selfish need starts to feel smaller in comparison. Just like him, I found myself putting every family need and every financial obligation ahead of my own desire to ride.

Last year, we lost him.

Everything we had went into his treatment and all savings disappeared quickly. Then came the loans, my sister’s wedding and every other expense I could ever dream of. Life had suddenly placed me where my father once stood. I had to step into his role and carry the responsibilities he had spent his entire life carrying for us. I realized soon enough that there was enough money to go around, but money always had a purpose and it was almost always never me.

I still watch moto vlogs, go out to ride with my friends every once in a while. But it is no longer the same. Every time I think about a motorcycle, all I could think about is how my dad would have loved to go riding once again.

Today, I have once again saved enough to buy the bike I once dreamed of. But the excitement isn’t there anymore. Now all I can think about is the next responsibility. “What if I spend this money on myself today and tomorrow its needed somewhere else?” I am finally the man my dad was. So accustomed to fulfilling responsibilities and preparing for the future that spending money on my own happiness has started to feel irresponsible. But I have come to accept that this is what middle-class economics is. In our homes, dreams don’t die, they just learn to wait.

Over the years, I’ve attended my friends’ bike deliveries with genuine happiness. Helped some of them choose their dream motorcycles. Took photos for them, heard their engines for the first time with the same excitement as them. When I see them living the dream we once spoke about as kids, I believe that my dream is still alive too. Maybe life has taken me down a longer and far more complicated road than I had imagined. Maybe it will take more time than I had hoped for. I just have to enjoy the journey.

Even now, every-time I head out for a ride, the little boy from grade 9 returns, riding aimlessly on empty roads without a care in the world. And every single time, with every ride, no matter how small, that dream inside me burns just a little brighter again.