Reader’s corner: My Scooter Saga

Back then, I too sat in my mother’s lap while dad navigated his prized ‘Lambretta’. What a sight we were — me clutching dad, mum clutching me, and one hand always holding her scarf… which, in turn, clung desperately to her bouffant! When my younger brother Teji arrived, I got promoted to the front seat, wind whipping through my hair as Teji took over Mum’s lap. Soon, I was tall enough to squat facing Dad, grinning into his face while we glided through the ‘City Beautiful’ as one of its many “scooter families.” Then baby Guri completed our quintet, and space got so tight we added an extra plank for seating. Before I could suggest the epic Sholay sidecar, dad betrayed me… by buying a car. Comfort up, intimacy down.

But scooters weren’t done with us yet. Along came a Bajaj ‘Chetak’. Teji, the faster learner, would torment me while I fumbled with the controls. Many ‘salaami’ sessions later (front wheel in the air, poor dad clinging to the back for dear life), I was certified roadworthy. Off I went, honking my way through town and scaring pedestrians who didn’t leap out of the way fast enough.

After Dad retired from the saddle, Teji and I inherited ‘Chetak’ jointly — along with strict instructions to behave like responsible, civilised owners. Pocket money had to cover petrol and maintenance. That meant precision fuel math: just enough to reach college and back, not a drop more. Woe betide the unlucky sibling who found the tank empty — the only option was to push.

Once, my fuel calculations went so wrong that halfway home from college, Chetak sputtered to a stop. I started dragging it to a pump, but ran out of steam before the scooter did. Abandoning it, I trudged home. Dad, bless him, sent Teji to rescue it. Teji hasn’t forgiven me to this day.
Speaking of confessions… to all our visiting relatives who borrowed our scooter in Chandigarh: sorry! Before handing it over, this thrifty brother-sister duo would siphon off every drop of petrol into a bottle and disappear. Charity may begin at home, but in our case, it never reached the fuel tank. And my grand finale? My “heroic” entry into university.

The boys started hooting at the sight of a girl on a scooter. I panicked, Chetak bolted, and I ended up face-first in a pile of bricks — like a tonne of bricks. Pride hath a fall? Mine had a free-fall. But I rose like a phoenix, mounted my steel steed, and galloped off humming: Khoob ladi mardani, woh to Jhansi waali Rani thi.

(The writer is a  retired civil  servant and a practicing advocate)