Scooter

My family owned a Bajaj scooter, which is basically the Indian version of a Vespa. This scooter held a very special place in our lives, and an even prestigious set of places on the verandah of our home where it was to be parked depending the season.

As a teenager, learning to ride this scooter was the rite of passage for me. Being able operate its intricate gear, clutch and brake system was a badge of honour. If you could ride it from point A to point B without letting the engine turn off, specially on an incline, you were a master. And between visits to the mechanic who would adjust its brakes and clutch, you had to adapt to its changing moods and rhythms as it would become reluctant to stop at traffic junctions or need some extra encouragement on the accelerator to keep going.

It was a unique thing, this scooter. With a life of its own. And a fuel tank that needed frequent replenishing. The scooter had to be kick-started. That was another life skill one needed to learn. Press the clutch, kick the starter situated on the side of the engine, and ever so slightly turn the accelerator on the handle. If you timed it just right, the scooter would spring to life. Unless you were a novice, in which case it would try you and mock, like the onlookers, the strength in your kick or your poor co-ordination with the clutch and the brake.

In winter, it took some extra kicking, to warm the engine up. There were tricks however to make the scooter behave. There was a flip switch called flush that helped. Tilting the scooter on the side of the engine also helped, pushing some extra fuel to burn in the combustion chambers the next time you kicked. But if all else failed, you had to unscrew the knob in between the two seats, right above the fuselage, and gaze down into the chamber it revealed to estimate how much fuel remained. You could then estimate whether it would suffice to give it a few coughing starts and drive it to the nearest petrol pump a mile out or whether dragging it was the only option left. Sometimes we kept just enough fuel in a spare container to get it to the petrol pump. But sometimes, it had to be dragged.

The scooter had served generations within my family. With frequent tyre changes, paint jobs and mechanic visits, it functioned, vicariously – but still so. And it was a joy to ride it. Initially with me in the passenger seat, with my grandfather or my father up front, but eventually with me driving them around for different chores. My favourite memory has to be driving my grandfather to get the groceries – carefully navigation the busy marketplace, while enjoying the confidence and comfort of my grandfather in the passenger seat.

It really did have a life of its own – this scooter, with its sputters and dramas, yet moving us through the ages.