Whistle Catchers

Since the age of three my legs have loved paddling, first it began with a red three-wheeler. I would sit on a tri-cycle and give ride to dolls. Well since that tiny age I had great taste in women, be it artificial or real hence the last ride was reserved for the most beautiful woman made of plastic. The Rapunzel inspired Barbie in pink, she too loved travelling around with a trustworthy chauffeur. Her long blonde hair riding the breeze and the auotist giggling down the sun-soaked veranda in the afternoon. After that ride to the sunset, the owner of the doll behaved like a typical rich father from Bollywood movies of 90’s and made a hue and cry about seducing his innocent daughter. The only problem is, the true patriarch and villain of my life has been one woman, who has been named in this blog too often.

The graduation from tri-cycle to bi-cycle took few years. Eventually I got the jackpot between my legs in fourth grade. Ever since then there has been no turning back, the path on bicycle has been a linear one with my education graph. I completed my school riding cycle, I graduated from college riding the same vehicle and eventually in two months I shall finish my Post-graduation riding cycle too. Hence my life has been a ride on two wheels so far.

From fourth grade me to the me till date, the rider self has picked up few habits and quirks of her own. Some are conscious and some are unconscious. Whenever it comes to road-crossing, in general I step down from my chariot, take few breaths, look on my right, scan my left and again look at right and dash across the street. I could easily flow through the crossing, but the curse of obedience placed by the mother of mine makes me do these actions.

Again when I see empty roads my legs decide to paddle faster no matter how much my mind yells "NO". After joining my post-graduate classes, my road ethics and sense of rules have improved. Now on every left turn I indicate my roadmates with my left hand stretched out like a plane curving in the sky. I even let huge monkeys pass me, well they scare me.

The blood of the scary drivers run thick in me. At times I want to fly past the slow To-to’s on road crowding my path. Then I realise I need to control my deamons, so I bring out my frustration through abusing the bell which yells out ‘TRING TRING…. TRAAAANG….. TRAAANNNNGGG….’ That poor black bell must hate me.

I too have my fair share of accidents, the past month made me skid on the sand one fine morning because I tried to save few goatlings sleeping under the blanket of fog. I bruised my knee and wrist, broke my watch, my basket contracted spondylitis and the handle has decided to indicate towards left no matter how much right my path is sat on.

So on these lonely, uneventful rides I have picked up some unladylike qualities. Whenever some stupid brats speak rudely, I retort in harsher words. When a man passes a comment deliberately on my jumping beautiful breasts I have classy words of thanks in return. At times the roads are empty, in my happy moment like a man, I whistle to my heart’s content. A tuneless tune I created for my stray dogs. Like the pied piper lost in his thoughts with children behind him, I often find my strays following me in hopes of biscuits under the mass-murderer sun. Their tails wagging and tongue palpitating.

For last two years, this has been an unconscious ritual, where I whistle in the wind and my dogs end up following me. But the careless soul I am, if I am not observing my surrounding, that means I don’t see anything. While I was lost in my own tune, a particular house on certain right on my return path was being agitated and irritated afternoons after afternoons. A faceless individual was whistling past it more or less on same time, every day. The inhabitants of that house are girls who are acutely aware of the follies opposite sex harvest. Every other afternoon for a month they tried to catch the whistle blower. But missed the offender that harmed their privacy and ears with a terrible tune. Each afternoon was allotted to single girl, the culprit of senseless music was at large running by, daring to hurt their sentiment with a cheap tune, yet they missed the musician by a second's strike. 

At last individual initiative turned into a collective plan. Nights after nights of talks made them decide on a day, a day when they would catch the whistling man. So at cost of one day of university, almost a year back, they decided to get hold of this stupid guy whistling past their castle of security. They all sat in the veranda, waiting with word weapons to shower at the idiot man. When the first syllable of tune was heard, they all rushed towards the entrance and eventually they saw road where the offender would be. But when all stood in the garden with huge hue and cry, they froze on their ground. Before their eyes, a shortie in green harem pants and black t-shirt and messed up bun was riding her cycle on and her lips curved into a pout which was letting out stupid tuneless tune and her strays following her in happiness.

They stood there, stuck on whether to shout at me or let me go because I was girl. Till this date I whistle past them and they stare at me from the balcony. But It does make me wonder are we treating our men right?

P.S- Today is International Women's day, and I won a debate competition. 

thanking you to bear with me

paulOaries