Celebrating World Bicycle Day with Dominic Franks’ ‘Nautanki Diaries’

I crouched as the wind rushed me in a head-on tackle. We splashed through a cradle of water puddled at the end of the slope. The road went to pieces. I thought about the steep descent we had come down. It meant a steep ascent too—an ascent so steep I had already decided I would push my cycle through it. I didn’t have the stamina or the strength to take a slope that gaunt. The road narrowed. A few steady rises later we were cycling through forest—thick trees on both sides, few motorcycles, fewer pedestrians. There was just the wind singing, the trees sighing, the insects ringing, the birds chirping, the cycle churning as the wheels went turning, and only us and our laboured breathing for company.

The road began a deceitful rise where the harshness of the climb hid behind the make-up of gentle inclines. We didn’t know how difficult it was until we began to gasp for breath. We lost our rhythms on those gradual forested slopes. Our cycles lost the straight lines they were always intended to have; they lolled like drunks, we swayed with them. Initially, I had stood on the pedals. Now I was stamping down on them, willing my body weight to drive me forward. Every downstroke ended in a virtual genuflection. Finally, my cycle stopped dead. With a resolve marked by immobility, it refused to move an inch further. I shook my head and muttered to Sibi through gulps of inrushing air, ‘I can’t cycle anymore.’

He had stopped too. We pushed our cycles and laughed—at least there were declines to look forward to. After recovering a semblance of steady breath, we proceeded to ride more slowly, more gently, without hurling ourselves at the road. Occasionally, someone went by on a motorcycle. Savandurga was a popular weekend cycle ride and Sibi half-expected a group of cyclists to descend on us at any moment. It wasn’t our lucky day. After one more unavoidable stop for similar reasons, we reached Savandurga.

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Read the book today.

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