I learned to ride a bicycle when I was seven,
pedals whirring under monsoon skies.
I pedalled to school and pre-degree,
tires splashing through Kerala puddles.
When I chased engineering dreams and moved to Trivandrum,
I became a library hunter, devouring four stacks a week.
I craved a steed for those winding quests—a motorcycle answered.
I bought one: a gleaming red Yamaha RX100,
its engine purring like a tiger’s growl, and I loved it fiercely.
After two years, I traded up to a Royal Enfield Bullet 350,
thunderous heartbeat thumping through dusty lanes.
It became my iron-clad companion; I roared everywhere on it—
beaches, hills, midnight markets aglow.
It stayed loyal till I claimed my M.Tech.
Then I passed its reins to my brother.
In Pondicherry’s job, I snagged a Kawasaki KB100,
zipping to office and back on salty coastal winds.
I roamed French quarters and hidden beaches on it,
waves crashing like applause.
When I shifted to Madras’s chaotic pulse, I sold it to a friend.
There, I bought a Kinetic Honda scooter—a grave mistake.
It wheezed without the others’ raw power and steady grip.
One dusk, racing home from office, a car slammed into it—
metal screamed, I flew through shattering air, spine splintered on asphalt.
That crash silenced my motorcycle odyssey.
Now I ride a four-wheeler: a Levo wheelchair,
silent wheels tracing quiet corridors.
