I used to have an old bicycle, the kind derogatorily referred to as dudhwala bicycle because milkmen made their delivery runs on it, with t...
I used to have an old bicycle, the kind derogatorily referred to as dudhwala bicycle because milkmen made their delivery runs on it, with their large milk cans hooked to its frame. The bicycle was heavy, steady and could make good speed on a flat Calcutta road, much to the anguish of pedestrians accustomed to languid, half-asleep cyclists. Its speed was the result of a modification I had made by stealing the hub off the wheel of my mother’s old bicycle and the intervention of my cycle mechanic on Bondel Road, who had been around so long he was more a friend. Then, towards the end of my school days, I got another bike, a green racing model with drop handlebars that I won in a quiz competition. Racing bikes were new to mass production in the city back then (though I know my great grandfather had one in the 1890s), and I had the option of upgrading mine to a ten-speed one, but I decided not to. Calcutta was flat, anyway.
By the time I started university, I was a seasoned Calcutta cyclist, and in those pre-mobile phone days, I would give my father a fright by turning up at home...
