The Ambassador and the Cycle
There lived in the late seventies, in the street behind ours, one Mr Mody, who was the secretary (a matriculate, who had risen in ranks from a clerk) of the then Finance minister of Punjab. He was charming, yet cunning, with a zest to live beyond his means. I went to meet his son, who was my classmate, on one December afternoon. Mody Uncle was in the midst of a half-hearted siesta. He sat up on seeing me, and asked me what I was doing. I said I was preparing for the Civil services. “Oh, very nice,” he blurted out, shouting for his servant to get me a cuppa with hot aalu pakodas. Then I suddenly noticed his badly bruised forehead and a bandage on his left foot.
“What happened to you, Uncle ji, some mishap?” I was really concerned.
“Oh, this! I fell down from my bicycle a few days back, putter.”
He started unconsciously to hum a popular tune, not much bothered about his condition.
“But, Uncle ji, why did you ride a cycle? Where is your PB 1111, the white Ambassador, with its white towel covered upholstery, and the deep cushioned seats, you have always spoken so highly about?” I enquired out of curiosity.
“Ah, I am under suspension these days, kaka,” and continued singing without an iota of embarrassment.
“Actually, I rode the bicycle to the vegetable market, and then inadvertently lifted my hands from the handles to recline my back out of habit, as if I were sitting in my Ambassador. I tottered and fell off the bicycle, a la Humpty Dumpty.”
He laughed heartily. “I hope to be reinstated anytime. The new government is likely to be in place shortly.”
“Have another cup, son,” he said light heartedly, resuming the old number, his right foot keeping the beat.
