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

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

AI Generated

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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🐾 The Weekend Time Bomb and a Puppy Named Chance

🐾 The Weekend Time Bomb and a Puppy Named Chance

                                       A story of love, laughter, and one unforgettable reunion

AI Generated 

You know how some people call their spouse by sweet names like baby, honey, or jaanu?

Not him.

He always called her "She."
Simple. No frills. No filters. Just… She.
And if you ever asked him why, he would probably scratch his head and say,
“Because She is everything. She’s the sentence, I’m just the punctuation.”

🏡 New Beginnings in a Small House

As newlyweds, they started their life in a cozy rented house — small enough to hear each other’s stomach grumble and large enough to host two egos and one cooking experiment gone wrong.

“She” was a modern woman in every sense — bold, confident, and could switch from work emails to fixing a fused bulb like it was nothing.

“He”? A soft-spoken fellow with half-baked confidence, the kind of guy who’d stand in front of a mirror to rehearse how to ask for extra sambar.

But life, as we know it, doesn’t always need matching puzzle pieces — it just needs the willingness to fit.

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📆 The Weekend Protocol

Now, weekends in their house had only one rule. A dangerous, unwritten, unspoken rule.
And that rule was:
He shall plan the weekend.

No plan = Tick. Tick. Tick.

Not following the plan = Tick-tick-tick-tick...

Plan canceled = BOOM.

“She” believed weekends were for creating stories, not for scrolling phones under blankets. And if “He” forgot to plan? Let’s just say Monday came with burnt toast and the silent treatment special.

So he learnt — one love-filled fight at a time — to always keep a Plan A and Plan B. And a Plan C, just in case.

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🐶 A Detour to the Past

It was one such weekend. They were headed out for shopping, when just outside their gate, She suddenly froze.

She saw a scooter parked nearby. And on it, perched like a royal with a wagging tail — a dog.

Not just any dog. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. She rushed forward like she saw a long-lost friend.

The man on the scooter looked startled as she blurted out:

“Is this your dog? Can I hold him for a second?”

He nodded, curious.

As She lovingly cuddled the dog, her eyes welled up.
This wasn’t just any dog.
This was him.
The same puppy she had rescued a year ago.

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🚖  Flashback: Hyderabad to Mysore

She turned to her confused husband — who was mentally calculating how close they were to another weekend blast — and said,
“I’ve told you this story, no?”

He squinted. “Uhh… is this the one with the bleeding dog and your filmy scarf moment?”

She nodded with a smile.

She was in Hyderabad back then. Every weekend, she’d board the Friday night train to Mysore.

One morning, just outside the Mysore station, she saw a tiny, bleeding puppy, whimpering near the footpath. Most would’ve walked past. She didn’t.

She made the auto stop. The driver argued, “Madam, stray dog… Someone else will take care.”
But She? No chance.

She tore her scarf, tied it around the puppy’s paw like some movie heroine, and demanded to be taken to a nearby vet.
First aid done, the next stop was a dog care center near Chamundi Hill. She paid, enrolled the puppy, and left with a heart heavier than her luggage.

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🌄 Fate Comes Full Circle

Now, a year later, fate parked that very scooter right outside their home.

“She” turned to the owner with teary joy.

“I remember this dog. The scar on his paw. The unique ears. The eyes. I know this is him.”

The man was stunned.
He smiled.
“You’re right. I adopted him from the Chamundi center. He’s been my travel partner ever since.”

She was beaming.

“Why didn’t you adopt him back then?” he asked.

“I was alone in Hyderabad. My job, travel… I couldn’t give him what he deserved. But I couldn’t leave him to die either. So I gave him a chance.”

And just like that, the puppy she saved had found his destiny — a second life and a second chance.

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💬 The Man with the Time Bomb

All this while, “He” stood a few feet away, still outside the gate.

Watching.

Smiling.

Relieved.

Why?

Because this time — the Time Bomb was defused… by a dog.

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💖 The Moral (with a Side of Love)

Sometimes, the smallest acts we do without expectations come back to us in ways we never imagine.

A bleeding puppy turned into a joyful reunion.
A scarf became a bandage of compassion.
A modern girl reminded her partner that courage is often quiet, love is often fierce, and empathy doesn’t need a plan.

And “He”?
Well, he now knows that some weekends don’t need planning — they just need listening.

So next time your partner tells a story, don’t scroll your phone.

That story might just be the reason the weekend bomb doesn’t go off.

After all, every “She” has a story that made her who she is.
And every “He” learns to love her, one weekend at a time.

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🌿
A Final Note:
Like most of life’s best tales, this one too is a blend — of imagination, memories, and those tiny moments that leave a lasting pawprint on our hearts.
Some parts are fictional, others gently borrowed from real life — but every word was written with love. ❤️