Standing in the balcony,
chain red-brown with rust,
through cities and states,
braving rain, wind and sun
and the threat of theft.
No fuel guzzler this,
Simply powered by idli, omelette, coffee
and whatever else it found on the road.
Now rests aging,
no Hercules this,
against the same sun it raced towards
in younger years.
Tyres like wrinkled skin,
Handlebar befriending dust – opposites do attract.
Frame – scratched and freckled and mottled,
of battles fought against nature,
and of the endless war it was dragged into by the Bangalore traffic.
True to its name: a chameleon,
on pushy, cramped office commutes,
on crooked streets,
on yawning highways,
on potholes interspersed with road.
standing still in its twilight years,
recounting in silence
the stories written on its spokes.