Kota Varadarajulu Raghupathi

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Ode To My Cycle

Sixteen summers peddled I
like a lone tiller in lone world
a fine Hercules with no gears
that lived with my father for eight winters.
A transferred gift it was in1982 with no price,
nothing else I inherited then and thereafter.
It waited like a pet dog every night when unpeddled
and took me round with a sweet soul moving
with the resurrection of each day
rode upon sizzling roads, escarpment, bridges, bushes, brambles
in spring, summer, autumn, winter
regardless of grammar of the earth.
I loved the clinking, creaking, screeching
and the disappearance of spokes like illusion.
Between the handlebar and the saddle
on the rim it bore many side-tracking the bus routes
scuttering pebbles, stones, mud balls under the wheels
moving left-right-left like clauses and phrases.
I tendered as a treasured gift,
greased, oiled, washed, repaired
like a physician for sixteen summers.

And one day I went with it to a mechanic,
sold it for a fabulous price
to trim my life faster
to the spattered roads with purring and whirring
but its wheels still sing in my memory like humming birds.

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