🛵 Hamara Bajaj… A Scooter-Full of Stories!☀️

 🛵 Hamara Bajaj… A Scooter-Full of Stories!☀️

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If you're a proud 80s or 90s kid, I bet your mind just sang this the moment you read it:

“Hamaraaa… Bajaaaaj!”
Goosebumps, right?

Those ads were not just commercials. They were emotions. Identity. Aspirations.
And thanks to a random YouTube spiral the other day — I stumbled upon some iconic 90s ads, and bang! There it was — the cement-grey nostalgia bomb called Bajaj Chetak.

And just like that, I was no longer in 2025. I was in my school uniform, dusty knees, hungry belly… and wide eyes, staring at a brand-new scooter outside our house.

Let me take you to 1998.

🛠️ Appa, The Bike Whisperer

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My father was a mechanic — not just any mechanic, mind you. He was the doctor saab for two-wheelers. People from across Hassan would bring their sick bikes to him — and they’d leave cured, humming again.

He had this contract with banks — used to travel across branches in Hassan district, repairing their vehicles. So a new bike or scooter parked at our house wasn't a big deal. But that day was different.

I came back from school, dragging my bag, ready to throw it and raid the kitchen… and I froze.

Right there, in front of our gate, stood a cement-coloured Bajaj Chetak, gleaming like a Bollywood hero’s entry scene.

I ran to him and asked breathlessly,

“Appa! Whose scooter is this?”
He smiled and casually said,
“Nammade kano. I bought it today. From now on, we’ll go everywhere together.”

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💥 Boom! Childhood Upgraded 

That was it. That line. It changed everything.

Suddenly, we were mobile. No more waiting for KSRTC buses that never came. No more standing like sardines in a crowd.
We had our own ride.
And oh boy, we had plans.

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👨‍👩‍👦‍👦 Scooter Geometry: How to Fit Four on Two Wheels

Now if you’ve never seen four people on a Chetak — let me break it down:

• Little Brother in front, sitting like he’s the one driving (his job: keep his hand on the horn and press when Appa nods — "Horn maadu!")

• Me in the middle — the official sandwich.

• Amma at the back, slightly tilted, balancing grace and groceries.

• And Appa, our family’s very own bike stuntman.

Somehow, there was always just enough space. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe it was Amma adjusting her sari and sliding just 3 inches back to make room.

Whatever it was — it worked.

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🛣️ The Great Subramanya Journey Begins

One fine Saturday, we had a family function at our grandmother’s house in Subramanya.

School was only till noon, and we were supposed to leave immediately after.

12:00 PM: Bell rings.
I’m waiting outside my brother’s classroom like it’s the last train home.
He runs out, we lock eyes — no talking.
We start walking home like two kids training for the Olympics. Brisk. Focused. Mission Scooter Ride.

12:30 PM: Amma’s packing the bags. Rice and Rasam on the stove.
1:15 PM: Appa still not home. I’ve started circling the house like a lion in a cage.
1:30 PM: Gate creaks. He’s here.
Smile on his face. Tools in his hand. And my heart doing backflips.

Lunch was demolished in record time. Rasam down the throat like energy drink.
By 2:15 PM — Operation Chetak Launched.

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🏍️ Riding With the Wind… and a Backache

The road from Hassan to Subramanya is pure cinema.

Once you cross Balupet, it’s like God switched on the air conditioner. Trees on both sides, coffee estates, mist playing hide and seek.

But here’s the real twist: the seat.

I was perched right on the edge — that cruel bump between the front and rear seat — and oh, my poor backside.
But did I care? NO.
Because I was on a journey. A real one. Not in a dream. Not a game. A live-action adventure.

My brother was pretending to steer.
Appa was gliding like a jockey on a horse.
And I was… shifting left and right every five minutes to keep my blood flow alive.

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🌀 Sakleshpur to Kempu Hole: The Test of Chetak

By 4 PM, we hit Sakleshpur. Took a short break — not for tea, but for back relief.
Then came the ghats. The real thrill.

Curvy roads, blind turns, monkeys on both sides, and one Chetak with a family of four, dancing through it all.
The scooter had hand gears, so you could see Appa’s hand moving like a magician — twist, clutch, shift, accelerate.

Just after Kempu Hole reservoir, Appa opened throttle. The scooter flew.
Well, okay, it coughed and crawled — but in our heads, it flew.

By 6 PM, we passed Gundya.
It was getting dark.
7:30 PM: We reached Ajji mane (grandma’s house) — tired, sweaty, but glowing with pride.

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⛩️ Temple, Tummy, and Trip Back

The next day, after the function and the mandatory 18-item lunch at grandma's place (including that payasa made with love and ghee), Appa decided —

“Let’s stop at Kukke Subramanya Temple before heading back.”

So we did.
We prayed, we clicked photos (on film camera, of course), and then we began the journey back.

This time, I sat with a towel under me — #SmartBoy
The wind was cooler, the roads more familiar, and our bond… stronger.

We weren’t just riding.
We were living.

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❤️ Final Thoughts: Four on a Scooter, Forever in Memory

That Chetak wasn’t just metal and wheels.
It was a memory machine.

It taught us balance — not just on roads, but in life.
How to adjust, how to share space, how to enjoy the journey even if you’re sitting on the edge.

So next time you hear the jingle —

“Buland Bharat ki buland tasveer… Hamara Bajaj!”

Close your eyes.
And remember that one ride, that one laugh, that one sandwich seat between Appa and Amma —
Where your whole world fit on two wheels.

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When the Breeze Brought Back a Friend

    🌿 When the Breeze Brought Back a Friend

                                      A nostalgic reflection on friendship, time, and unexpected reunions

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🪴 Balcony, Breeze, and Bees

There’s something magical about a weekend afternoon. Especially when you’re sitting in your balcony, wrapped in the soft hum of a garden that’s alive — buzzing bees, nosy butterflies, and overconfident squirrels treating your guava tree like it’s theirs.

After lunch, the swing chair becomes a portal. The breeze tugs at your thoughts, your body relaxes, and your mind… well, your mind travels. Not forward — but backward.

So come, sit with me. Close your eyes. Hear the bees hop from hibiscus to jasmine. Somewhere nearby, a bird composes a melody. And if you’re really quiet, you’ll hear laughter — not today’s, but from years ago.

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💬 The Friendships We Thought Would Last Forever

There was a time when we thought our school best friends would be part of our forever. That we’d always call, always meet, and never lose touch. We promised to attend each other’s weddings, name our kids after each other, maybe even grow old in the same colony.

But life… life has other plans. Careers, cities, families, responsibilities — they stretch us out like butter on hot toast. Slowly, those daily conversations shrink to yearly greetings. And then — silence.

Until one day, something stirs the memory.

For me, it happened in a metro.

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🚇 A Metro Ride into the Past

It was one of those rare Bangalore afternoons when the metro wasn’t packed like a tiffin box. A true miracle. I could actually stand without someone breathing down my neck. Legs weren’t twisted like yoga poses. I had full body positioning! Trust me, in Bangalore metro terms, this is luxury.

As we passed through the railway station, two elderly men — somewhere in their early sixties — boarded. They spoke Tamil, with a lilt that came only from Palakkad. Their laughter had no filters. Loud, honest, and filled with something pure — a time before smartphones, before Google, before everyone had LinkedIn but no one had time.

Let me translate what I overheard. Don’t worry — I wasn't eavesdropping. They were practically announcing their life stories over the PA system.

Friend 1: “Hey! You da? After so long!”
Friend 2: “Macha! I’m good! What are you doing here?”
Friend 1: “Going to a friend’s daughter’s wedding.”
Friend 2: “Which friend?”
Friend 1: “Vishwanathan’s daughter.”
Friend 2: “Eh! I’m going to the same one. He was my colleague!”
Friend 1: “What a small world! We were childhood friends. Haven’t seen each other since school.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Memories came rushing.

Friend 2: “Yes, yes. Life, da. Took us everywhere. Retired now. But see, destiny made us meet — in Bangalore metro of all places!”
Friend 1: “Remember the days we travelled from Walayar to Coimbatore for school?”
Friend 2: “How can I forget? And what about Rajesh Unni and Prabakaran?”
Friend 1: silent for a moment “Rajesh... passed away two years ago.”
Friend 2: “What? That health freak? The guy who drank bitter gourd juice like water?”
Friend 1: “Yes, macha. Life’s unpredictable.”

And then came the line that hit me like that one autorickshaw that always jumps the signal:

Friend 2: “When we were young, we chased jobs and money. Now, we have both — but no friends. The friendships we had in childhood were the purest. No ego. No expectations. Just hearts wide open.”

They exchanged numbers. The train arrived at their stop.

Friend 1: “Come da, let’s get down. We’ve got a marriage to attend and memories to relive.”

And just like that, they walked away, laughing, leaning on each other, into the city — and into their past.

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🏫 The School That Lives in My Head

I still had a few stops left. But my mind had already slipped back to those old school days — where the benches held secrets, the walls had witnessed dreams whispered between classes, and friendships were as simple as sharing a pencil or saving a seat during morning assembly.

So many friends. Some still around. Some drifting in and out like radio signals. Some only names on faded photographs.

They were classmates, lunchbox warriors, backbench philosophers, exam-time saviors, and those who stuck around long enough to become family.

Some were seasonal. Some, eternal. But each one? Real.

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🎒 Life, Laughter, and Letting Go

We often think friendship is about consistency. Daily calls. Weekly updates. Birthday reminders.

But maybe, it’s also about silent understanding. That even after years, when we meet — at a wedding, a bus stand, or a random metro — we can talk like nothing ever changed.

So to all my friends — whether we talk or not — thank you.

You were part of my story. A scene, a chapter, a bridge. You helped me laugh when I had no reason to. You showed up when I didn’t expect you to. And even if time pulled us apart, I still carry a little bit of you with me.

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💌 Until We Meet Again…

If you ever see me staring out the window, smiling quietly in a crowded metro, don’t be surprised. Maybe I’m not thinking about work. Maybe I’m just remembering you.

Because friendship never really leaves. It just takes the scenic route back.

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