“Chal ghoom kar aatey hai,” said Jeevan, one of my childhood friends. It means, “Let’s go for a ride.”
I didn’t even think twice , I was excited. Jeevan used to ride his dad’s Bajaj Chetak all the time. A wonderful scooter, and one of the first two-wheelers I ever learned to ride on. I started with scooters before graduating to motorbikes, but it was Jeevan who first taught me how to ride , how to balance, press the clutch, and raise the accelerator. I owe him for that. He took all the risks while I learned.
“Bhai, have you ever tried to skid a scooter?” Jeevan asked.
I said, “No, that’s not practical.”
He smiled. “Yeah, it’s difficult because scooter engines are one-sided , you’ll lose balance. But I did it once. What a feeling!”
All this conversation was happening while he was riding.
We used to roam around inside BARC Colony, and just so you know, when you enter the main gate there’s this long, straight stretch of road , perfect for a race… or a disaster. Jeevan started speeding up. The old Chetak roared, hitting nearly 70 kilometers per hour. Wind rushing, road flying by. Then he yelled, “Bhai! I’m about to try it , skid on Bajaj Chetak, with two passengers!”
I froze. “No, no, no! Don’t do that! Not with me sitting behind!”
But before I could finish, the world tilted.
The next thing I remember , I was flying. Literally flying, 70 kilometers per hour through the air. For a moment, it felt like a dream, weightless WOW!. And then, like a Boeing 747, I landed. First one side, then the other. Reality hit hard.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the road. My left thigh, calf, and shins were all scraped white, like a cotton field. My elbow was raw. Skin peeled off. It took a few seconds for the pain to reach me , and when it did, it was on fire.
Jeevan stood there, shocked. The scooter had gone a mile ahead, leaving both of us behind. He had a small scratch. I had… the rest. In a scooter, the rider’s legs stay tucked in, but the passenger’s? Exposed. To my surprise, I was the bait.
He rushed me to BARC hospital, straight to casualty. The nurses looked at me and shook their heads. “Smart boy,” one of the nurses asked. When asked what happened, Jeevan said, “We fell from the scooter.”
I couldn’t argue , I was too busy clenching my teeth.
Then came the villain: Tincture Benzoin.
If you’ve ever had it, you will literally experience the word agony. The nurse didn’t even blink , she just poured it onto cotton and then applied it directly to my open wound. . The entire hospital heard my scream. Jeevan whispered, “Don’t shout, everything will be alright.”
I looked at him , half burning, full furious , and said, “Jeevan, one more word and you’ll be on the floor.”
When I got home, Papa opened the door and burst out laughing. “Oh, look at my brave son,” he said. “Trying new things!” He called Mummy. She came, took one look, and sighed, “I don’t know what to do with you.”
A few weeks later, we were shifting houses , from BARC Colony to Nerul Kendriya Vihar. I was practically useless, holding photo frames while my friend Benny and my sister Chechi #2 did all the work.
Papa looked at me and said, “Wow, one son , so useful to us.
That smile , pure sarcasm.
Chechi #2, who was studying nursing at the time, became my personal nurse. She cleaned and dressed the wounds every day. It healed faster because of her , though she enjoyed my pain. Sibling privilege. Every time she saw me shrink, she’d grin and say, “Aur skid maarega?”
When I look back on those moments, I realize we are the result of contribution , of people who shape us in unexpected ways. Thanks to my friend, from that day onward, I learned to always expect the unexpected and Yes, if possible always wear jeans.
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