“All I have in this world is my bicycle’s ball bearings of steel and my word, and I don’t break ‘em for no one” -- Tony “Scarface” Montana in, er, the future remake of Scarface.
I, for one, was happy to read about the opening of Desh’s first bicycle lane in Rajshahi. Despite it being for children and of limited length, it’s a foot, or rather a pedal, in the ride direction.
Extrapolating Gil Scott-Heron, the revolution will not be televised, the evolution will be mobilised.
I’ve been commuting to work daily by bicycle in Dhaka for the last three-and-a-half years, and would like to share the following observations:
On a normal day, it saves me on average half an hour each way on my daily commute, and much more on days of traffic disruption. This means I have at least an extra hour a day to pick my nose, scratch my backside, hang with my family and friends, swim, yoga, sleep more, work more, do whatever I wish. I do not allow this city to exert its tyranny over me, and I remain a master of my time and destiny.
On bike you can wriggle, waltz, worm through, jump up onto the pavement, step on through to the other side, or lift your bike into space. In the words of MJ: “you don’t stop til you get enough.”
I am never fazed by the thought of traffic nor have any bad traffic days, come rain, hail, shine, demos, rallies, rampages, and increasingly, “VIP movement.”
All of this, of course, keeps my backside small but shapely. Some of you may ask about the sweating and body odour and rightly so. After all, this is the tropics. I’d counter “what true son of Bengal fears sweat?”
Anyway, I keep a change of clothes at the office, but beyond that, this cycling has taught me to embrace nepotism with all my heart.
This nepotism allows me to come into work all drenched and bedraggled and even more so in the times of monsoon.
Other places may talk of raining cats and dogs, but this be Bengal baby! It rains tigers and elephants! The land and the sky become as if one. The only thing saving you from confusion, whether if you are a bird or fish, all senses drowned by the deluge, is the thin land line of Bangla green.
On a bicycle, you get to connect with Dhaka city, whereas in a car, you are in a bubble.
You hear snatches of conversation, laughter, arguments, not only see but also smell food and flowers.
Even the dust or being half-drowned in a monsoon deluge makes living real. Did you know butterflies usually come out the day after rains?
Did you know kids in Hatirjheel come out after Asr and do bike stunts, bunny hops, long-long wheelies, 180s, backstops, and things that they haven’t even named?
Also, in front of Bookworm bookstore, before the Cantonment main gates and I hear, in Mirpur DOHS too.
Could this be the rise of a genuine Dhaka urban youth sub-culture? Not from the usual affluent privileged backgrounds either.
Every day, you get to fly. Albeit for a brief moment in time, you are gravity’s master.
Do you know how many speed breakers there are in Dhaka city?
Every single one a ramp, a launchpad, a takeoff point for a bunny hop, a flight of fancy, for less than a second you are airborne, your bike has wings, a silicon age descendent of Pegasus.
Apt for a city where during hartal hours I daydream of Dhaka roads transmogrifying to the golden age of Arcadia.
Rickshaws run freely and herds of them take over the road: Squint slightly and they are the modern day equivalent of centaurs: Half-man, half-machine.
Intermittently they scatter, making way for lumbering dragons, the smoke belching buses.
The Classics metaphor is apt, as the Olympians and their selfish self-absorbed struggles impact all those going about their daily life.
By virtue of biking, you get to meet people like the whacky but wondrous Nasrat C, my Pathfinder General Extraordinaire, and also the amazing BDcyclist community, a fantastic collective of bike riders, and their magnificent flying machines.
Through them you learn that a 15-minute ride off of any road will take you beyond anywhere cars go, let alone a stray from the Tristate area. Starting from Bashundhara or Uttara, you can ride into areas and not see towers dominating the skyline.
Until a decade back, my abiding memory of landing by plane in Dhaka was: “Where’s the land? It’s all bloody water.”
Now this has all been filled in, and if still not accessible by car, it is yours to roam and venture on bike.
Another thing is I see loads of cars with “PRESS” posted on their front and rear windscreens.
So, during traffic standoffs, I get off of my bicycle and oblige.
Whilst I am pressing down on the glass, the drivers and shahebs get all irate and come out of the car swearing.
I weep for journalistic standards.
Have English standards fallen so badly? Do they not understand the meaning of “press” and “freedom of the press”?
Remember: Each turn of the wheel is a revolution, now go bike!
