VICTORY AND DEFEAT
(First read on the World Service of the BBC in February 1998)

When Mehta & Co. declared a holiday to celebrate their silver jubilee, Bhaskar Rao knew exactly how he wanted to spend the day. He decided to be in time for lunch but did not wish to while away the morning chatting and gossiping over a cup of tea and a plate of samosas. He would rather be with his dear friend. It was only on Sundays that they could really be together and a bonus day was always welcome.
He had stumbled upon his friend when he was fourteen and now, twenty years later, the bond had grown stronger than ever in spite of a love-hate relationship that is a part of every affair. He hated his bicycle when it let off the air in the middle of nowhere or dropped a pedal in the midst of a busy traffic intersection.
But he loved it when it carried him to the bougainvillea on top of a hill overlooking the National Defence Academy. He had found out a way of creeping into a natural arbour formed by the tree, and once there he would lie back and stare at the translucent pink flowers, brilliantly vibrant against a deep blue sky. The artist in his generosity had laid the colour on really thick. It was a blue he never tried of watching; a blue he could never see in the city.
He loved his friend because it took him past lakes and on tracks winding over the mountains. Mountains that were a lush green in August, golden yellow in October, cold and brown in January and hot and brown in April. And though he had seen it happen over and over again, each time the transformation filled him with amazement and every Sunday he and his bicycle were a part of this ceaseless wonder.
And he loved it because it let him chase tiffin-boxes.
That day he had barely turned out of his house on to the Bund Garden Bridge, when he saw a tiffin-box. The factory worker, astride his standard Atlas bicycle, a loose pink shirt with red squares, half open at the front, flapping in the wind, was pedaling as fast as his blue Hawaii slippers could manage. And perched on the carriage behind was, of course, the lunch box.
Bhaskar Rao picked up speed on his 21-inch student bicycle. He had fine-tuned the art of chasing tiffin-boxes. He understood them well. They were robust young adults capable of a good sprint but could never keep it up for long, and then Bhaskar Rao would whiz past, leaving his victims stunned.
Bhaskar Rao was now close behind the pink shirt who noticed him and picked up the challenge. The blue hawaiis pushed harder. Bhaskar Rao followed in hot pursuit. They whistled down the Deccan College Road and over the Holkar Bridge, across the Ammunition Factory Chowk and past the Water Works Station. It was a long ride. Bhaskar Rao sensed that he could now overtake the pink shirt, but it was a level road and his victory would not appear as decisive as he wished it to be. He had learnt to play cat and mouse. He goaded the pink shirt on. The factory worker now stood up on the pedals and pounded the bike, his body swaying from side to side, his bicycle oscillating like a pendulum. Bhaskar Rao smiled. Just as he had expected, the fellow was tiring himself expending needless energy. A tiffin-box after all! Bhaskar Rao was breathing deeply but easily, his legs working efficiently, steadily, kept him perfectly poised. Down they went past the Khadki Cantonment Board, across Bombay-Poona highway and under the railway bridge.
That was the moment for which Bhaskar Rao had been waiting. After going under the bridge, the road rose sharply. Bhaskar Rao had found that hardly anyone could beat him uphill. As they took the incline Bhaskar Rao got ready, but before he could demonstrate his prowess, the man suddenly stopped cycling, slumped on to his seat, grunted and gasped for breadth. The tiffin-box had not just lost. It had surrendered. With a sidelong glance, Bhaskar Rao went past.
From behind the Khadki Railway Station, Bhaskar Rao took the Spicer College Road. It is a long wide road going west and shady most of the way with the Botanical Gardens flanking its northern side. He had won the race for the day and was happy. Someone fifty meters ahead, clad in shoes and shorts and wearing a very strange sort of cap, was going at a goodly pace. Bhaskar Rao was not sure he wanted to start another race just then, but he picked up speed only to have a closer look at boy’s cap. As he caught up, he could make out the thin wiry curls of a negro’s hair and saw the solid thigh and calf muscles pushing the bike. He was in all likelihood, a student of Spicer College. Bhaskar Rao understood tiffin-boxes. He wasn’t sure of Africans. He wouldn’t like his day to end on a note of defeat.
Bhaskar Rao edged closer. The Negro suddenly pulled away with a velocity that surprised Bhaskar Rao. He followed straining every muscle and soon decreased the distance between them. They were now cycling in tandem, one leading by a few inches and then the other as they tore past Maharashtra Café and over the speed breakers. It was a furious ride to the intersection and Bhaskar Rao hoped they would be turning left on the road going slightly uphill to Baner. But the African kept straight and soon they were flying past Aundh village and going downhill over the narrow bridge on the Mula River. It was dangerous speeding on the bridge and Bhaskar missed many a beat when a bus brushed past him. But neither of them would give up. Bhaskar Rao couldn’t sense how much stamina his opponent had. Bhaskar Rao wasn’t tired yet but he was breathing hard and his thighs felt sore.
At the end of the bridge the road rises sharply to Sanghvi village. Bhaskar Rao hadn’t been on it for some years and wondered how tough the going would be. The road dipped, turned left and rose abruptly. Bhaskar Rao went at it for all his worth. Fighting against pain in his legs he pressed down as hard as he could. He saw the African slowly lose momentum. Bhaskar Rao pushed on for another full minute before looking back. His adversary was far behind. Flushed with pleasure, Bhaskar Rao took the road that led to the sports stadium at Balewadi. The race had released strange juices in his body. Physically as well as mentally, Bhaskar Rao was in the skies. In the distance he saw a rare sight. It was a group of five cyclists, all on 10-speed racer bikes. Bhaskar Rao steadily reduced the distance and feeling on top of the world whizzed past them. The shrubs and trees on either side of the road were flying past. He saw the lines of tarmac speeding under him. The front wheel seemed all ready for take off.
The pleasant slick-click-slick-click of well oiled chains passing through geared pulleys reached Bhaskar Rao’s ears through the roar of the wind rushing past his head. Before he could fully comprehend, first two, and then the other three cyclists breezed past him. The racers had either just started or had been taking it easy when Bhaskar Rao had passed them. Now they were a different animal. Shoulders curved, elbows in, heads bent, they were rapidly putting distance between themselves and Bhaskar Rao. He pushed until he could push no more. Then he stood up and pedaled, his body swaying from side to side. It didn’t seem to help. His only hope lay in the steep half kilometer of incline uphill before the road joined Chandni Chowk.
He decided not to look up but to keep his eyes glued to the few feet of tarmac just before him that he could see from under the brim of his cap. He cycled for three quarters of a minute with all the strength he could summon and then slowly raised him head. The rim of his cap traveled over the empty road. He couldn’t believe they had got so far. He threw back his head and was shocked to see them right up at Chandni Chowk.
It had been a humiliating defeat. He wouldn’t quite enjoy Mehta’s lunch. He pushed up to Chandni Chowk and turned left towards Bavdhan on his way home. The workers were already in their factories. They were no tiffin boxes to chase. He had ruined the day. For a moment he thought of going the other way to his bouganvillea. That would restore his spirits for sure, but it was much to far and he hadn’t the time.
He was going past Bharat Electronics when he heard the clank-clank-clankety-clank of a frantic cyclist. It was a well-dressed gentleman in a white shirt, neatly tucked in, grey woolen trousers and polished shoes. Bhaskar Rao had some limited experience with this type. Not many well dressed gentleman cycled and those few that did were not racing enthusiasts. Only an occasional one would turn out to be tenacious. Bhaskar Rao was soon close upon the heels of the white shirt.
“Papa! Someone is coming fast!”
It was a child’s voice. Perched on a seat in front specially designed for children, was a schoolboy about six years old with a satchel dancing on his back. Every few seconds he turned to see how close Bhaskar Rao had got.
“Papa, faster!” shouted the boy, shaking with excitement.
Papa went down ERDL Road with Bhaskar Rao breathing down his neck. The white shirt did appear rather tenacious but Bhaskar Rao could sense that the gentleman was tiring. Bhaskar Rao was now sure that he would end the day, victorious. He hoped Mehta and put out some bottles of beer if not champagne.
At the Tropical Institute, Papa and Bhaskar Rao were neck and neck.
“Papa! Faster! Faster!” shouted the child. He turned and looked at Bhaskar Rao and screamed: “You cannot beat my Papa! My Papa is the world’s greatest cyclist!”
Oh yeah? thought Bhaskar Rao. We shall soon see. He was already beginning to inch forward. In less than thirty seconds he would be way ahead. He turned to have a look at Papa. The gentleman appeared a little older than Bhaskar Rao. There was a sheepish grin on his face. Sweat was pouring down his forehead and getting into his eyes. Bhaskar Rao saw the child’s eyes shining with excitement. The boy was certain of victory. He believed in Papa.
Bhaskar Rao eased his pedaling and braked imperceptibly. With a clank-clank-clankety-clank the world’s greatest cyclist sped past.

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