Standing in the balcony,
chain red-brown with rust,
trusted companion
through cities and states,
bisecting forests,
hemming coastlines,
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,
joints creaking,
no Hercules this,
powerless
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,
scars
of battles fought against nature,
and of the endless war it was dragged into by the Bangalore traffic.
True to its name: a chameleon,
blending in
on pushy, cramped office commutes,
on crooked streets,
on yawning highways,
on potholes interspersed with road.
Now
standing still in its twilight years,
recounting in silence
the stories written on its spokes.
Grains of thought 