First Gear, Father’s Trust, and a Ride to Remember

                  First Gear, Father’s Trust, and a Ride to                                            Remember

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Sometimes, tears arrive without invitation. One moment you're smiling, and the next, your eyes blur with memories so strong they tug at your heart. And honestly, that's okay. It just means that those memories still hold meaning, still breathe life into who we are today.

Just recently, I had one of those quiet conversations inside my head—the kind we all secretly have with ourselves:

Me: "How’s life these days?"

Also me: "It's good… just going on."

Me: "Given a chance, would you revisit the past?"

Also me: "Absolutely. Without thinking twice."

Me: "Why though?"

Also me: "Because every moment I've lived is the foundation beneath my feet today. My past isn't just a memory—it's everything that shaped me."

And just like that, one specific memory drifted in softly, as clear as yesterday—my first-ever long-distance ride on my brand-new Bajaj XCD bike, with none other than my dad as my companion.

The Journey Begins

Buying your own bike for the first time is special, especially for someone from a humble middle-class background. It feels monumental, a personal Everest. But what's even more special is sharing that moment with someone who's not only your dad but also your lifelong hero—a skilled mechanic, a passionate rider, and a person you've secretly always wanted to impress.

I had already enjoyed many shorter rides with him, but this was different. It was our first real journey on my new bike—from Hassan to my grandmother’s house in Subramanya.

My mother and brother were already there, attending a family function. Dad and I were to join them. I travelled from Bangalore to Hassan on a cool Friday evening, excitement buzzing inside me, barely able to sleep. The next morning, I found dad up early, inspecting my new Bajaj XCD, pride quietly twinkling in his eyes.

"You ready?" he asked, in that calm, reassuring voice.

"Absolutely," I replied, hiding my nervous excitement behind a big grin.

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First Half: Hassan to Sakaleshpur

The journey began with my father riding, as usual. Sitting behind him, the wind brushed against our faces, gently carrying his words as he shared his incredible biking stories from the late 1970s. One story particularly stood out: how he and his friends rode all the way from Hassan to Chennai just to watch a motorcycle race.

"You know," he shouted over the wind, "the bikes back then had powerful two-stroke engines. Roads were rough, and the ride vibrated right through your bones. But the thrill… nothing beats that."

Occasionally, his words vanished into the wind, prompting me to keep interrupting, "Ha? What? Say again?" He'd smile patiently, repeating himself, enjoying every bit of the storytelling as much as I enjoyed hearing it.

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Breakfast, Keys, and Butterflies

By the time we reached Sakaleshpur, hunger had firmly taken charge. Dad guided us to a small eatery near the bus stand, serving hot dosas, idlis, crispy vadas, and strong coffee. It's amazing how simple things taste incredible when you're hungry and happy.

But the real moment was yet to come.

Dad casually handed me the keys, climbing behind as a pillion rider—for the very first time. My heart suddenly turned into an Olympic gymnast. Butterflies fluttered furiously inside my stomach. For a moment, I forgot how to start the bike.

"Relax," Dad laughed gently, sensing my nervousness. "You've got this."

First gear—Ruummm… the bike jerked slightly, making Dad chuckle. Second gear—smooth now. Third gear—I found my rhythm. The ride through the ghats began, and dad gently advised, "Easy on the brakes, slower on curves. Control your speed."

Overconfident as only a young man can be, I thought I'd mastered the art already.

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Life’s Gentle Reality Check

Barely twenty kilometers later, on a steep downhill near Gundya, I impatiently tried to overtake a sluggish truck without a clear view of the road ahead. My father urgently tapped my shoulder, voice suddenly stern, "Slow down! Wait until it's clear. One wrong move can cost a life."

His words cut through my bravado instantly, making my pulse quicken. That single sentence humbled me. It made me realize how fragile life could be—and how crucial trust is.

We reached Gundya safely, taking a much-needed tea break. Dad quietly reclaimed control of the bike, understanding I needed a moment to process my mistake.

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A Ride Through Magic

The stretch from Gundya to Subramanya was pure magic. Even though it was midday, towering trees enveloped us, filtering sunlight into soft, golden beams. The air felt cool, and the forest whispered secrets only we could hear.

During this peaceful ride, Dad began another story—this one quieter, more thoughtful. He narrated an incident from his youth when a sudden accident ruptured his lip badly. The pain, the shock, and the humility of realizing he wasn't invincible were clearly etched in his memory.

He spoke softly, "Life sometimes teaches lessons brutally. Respect those lessons; they keep you alive."

The quiet that followed felt deep, powerful, like the forest itself was absorbing his words.

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Reaching Home

By afternoon, we arrived at my grandmother’s house. The aromas of her cooking greeted us like an embrace. Family chatter, laughter, and that comforting warmth filled every corner. It felt like we'd earned it.

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Why Does it Matter Now?

Sitting quietly, reflecting on that ride today, I asked myself again:

"Why does this ride matter so much now?"

The answer was gentle but clear:

When we're young, we believe we have all the answers. We see our parents' guidance as interference, their advice as restrictions. Only later—sometimes painfully late—do we understand their true worth. We rarely realize the immense value they bring until we’re left staring at their empty spaces, wishing we could hear their voices again.

The one person who was genuinely proud of our smallest achievement—the one who’d quietly cheer and smile warmly—is eventually not there anymore. No achievement, no success, no money ever fills that emptiness.

Life moves forward relentlessly. Time waits for no one. Yet, often, we remain stuck in the past—holding onto memories of those smiles, that laughter, that gentle voice guiding us.

Yes, tears do come quietly, without warning. And that's okay. They are reminders of how deeply we've loved, how dearly we've been loved, and how priceless those moments really were.

Today, recalling that ride with my father on my Bajaj XCD, I realize it wasn't just a trip to my grandmother’s house. It was a journey of trust, respect, and the subtle passing down of life's lessons from father to son.

Quietly, from the depth of my heart, I whisper towards the sky:

"Thank you, Dad. For everything."

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From Floppy to Cloud: A Dusty Discovery and a Digital Tale

 From Floppy to Cloud: A Dusty Discovery and                                 a Digital Tale

              — A Nostalgic Tech Journey That Starts with Cleaning and Ends in Cloud Storage

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🧹 The Weekend Cleaning That Uncovered a Memory

Marriage teaches you many things—like the mysterious ability to locate socks you swore you never owned and, more importantly, the art of cleaning things you forgot existed. It was one of those weekends. While my better half was on a mission to Marie-Kondo the wardrobe, I decided to declutter my digital assets.

Now, by "digital assets," I don’t mean cloud backups or email folders. I mean that black plastic box under the table. The legendary dumping ground of every old, unused gadget that once had purpose and pride.

As I dug through tangled wires, broken chargers, dusty mouse pads, and ancient USBs, I stumbled on something that instantly pulled me back in time.

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🧠 Guess What I Found?

It was square. Flat. Familiar.
You’re already thinking it, aren’t you?

Yes. The floppy disk.
Our tech lifeline back in the day. It sat there like a sleepy old uncle at a family reunion—tired but still proud.

I pulled it out, blew off the dust, and couldn’t help but smile. This 1.44 MB piece of plastic once carried my entire world—assignments, Flash games, and saved music (I know, with 1.44 MB, it was difficult to take all the songs my friend had in his system, and I took a selected ones).

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👧 “Appa, What Is This?”

And just as I was in my memory bubble, came the inevitable question.

“Appa, what is this? Is it a toy?”

Ah. The joys of parenting in a generation that thinks the "Save" icon was just designed to look cool.

So I sat down with my daughter and began a little story…

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💾 The Rise of the Floppy Disk

I told her about how the floppy disk was introduced in 1971 by IBM.
How it came in three generations:

• 8-inch floppy: Used in mainframe systems. Could store just 80 KB.

• 5.25-inch floppy: Became common in personal computers in the late ‘70s.

• 3.5-inch floppy: The superstar of the '90s. Sleek, compact, and could store 1.44 MB.

To her, this sounded absurd. One PDF from her school project is over 4 MB!

But I reminded her that in those days, we worked with what we had—and made magic out of it.

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🧒 A Middle-Class Dream Machine

Being a Computer Science student back then meant learning languages like C, C++, and COBOL. We didn’t have laptops or home Wi-Fi. Even visiting a cyber café cost money. But my mother—soft-spoken, loving, fierce when needed—decided to get me a computer.

That little floppy meant the world to us. I still remember walking to the computer store with my mother and father—my two superheroes. I had asked them for a computer. It wasn’t just a machine; it was a dream. A big one.

For a middle-class family like us, even a floppy box was a calculated expense. But my mother, the epitome of patience and unconditional love, simply said yes. My father, silent but always supportive, walked with us to buy it. We didn’t get the fanciest system, but we got what we needed—an HCL Frontline desktop, launched in 2005. Running Windows XP. Complete with Winamp (remember that legendary MP3 player with those wild skins and visualizations?). And yes, that 5-pack floppy disk box. Like owning gold.

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🎮 Floppy Adventures: Flash Games & Winamp Days

Once the PC was set up, I wanted what every kid with a computer dreams of—Flash games. And my floppy disks became the transport trucks for joy. From friend’s houses to my PC, I’d copy tiny Flash games, compressed to fit that sacred 1.44 MB.

Alongside games, there was Winamp—the most stylish MP3 player of the time. Do you remember the wild skins you could choose? Every theme made it feel like a different app altogether.

Later came writable CDs. Then USB drives. Then external hard disks. Then SSDs.
And today? We live in the Cloud.

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☁️ From Plastic to Cloud

From floppy disks to cloud storage, the journey is almost poetic. We once treated a few megabytes like treasure. Now we scroll through gigabytes like we scroll through memes.

I showed my daughter a YouTube video about floppy disks. She watched it with a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we, Appa?” she said.

Yes, we really have.

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❤️ What the Floppy Meant to Me

That little piece of plastic wasn’t just a disk.
It was a ticket to learning, a container of dreams, and a symbol of what my parents did for me. Every byte it stored carried my childhood, my ambition, and my parents’ love.

Now it sits on my shelf—not as junk, but as a reminder.
A reminder of how far we’ve come.
Of how little things once held the biggest value.

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📝 Final Thought

Next time you find an old gadget, don’t toss it right away.
Maybe, just maybe—it’s not junk.

Maybe it’s a story.

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My Floppy Disk  Pic

My Floppy Disk

Do you have any stories like this?