“What a difference this cycle has made!” thought Mohan, as he parked it near a petrol pump from where his team bus would pick him up for the Under 17 Final. The well-worn seat dusted and wiped daily till it glistened; the chrome fittings, polished till they shone like a mirror; the shiny little bell that had cheerily heralded his father’s arrival... the old cycle had been his father’s most prized possession till a couple of years ago, when he had quietly handed it over to Mohan on his birthday.

“Take it”, he had said, gruffly. “You can save time going to school and to cricket practice. I know you want spiked cricket shoes, son. And you do deserve that and more. But…but…this is all I can do!”

“This is better than cricket shoes, Appa”, Mohan had lied quietly. “But how will you manage?” His father had a day job as an attender in a government office and on alternate nights worked as a security guard at an apartment block, a few kilometers away from the tiny two room apartment where Mohan, his siblings and parents lived.

A Priceless Gift

“I will be fine, don’t you worry! You focus on cricket and school”. Turning abruptly away to hide his emotion, his father had left early to catch the bus to work. Love had transformed a father’s daily drudgery into a hallowed penance.

The cycle had since become Mohan’s trusty aide as he balanced morning and evening cricket practice with school and tournaments. When he was selected for the Under 17 team the smile on his father’s face shone brighter than the chrome rims of the cycle that he still insisted on polishing himself… Mohan gave the cycle a final pat before boarding the bus to his match.

In the team room later that day during the innings break, Mohan could hear his heart thumping as the excitement levels peaked: they had a very real chance to win the Tournament. The target was an achievable 165 runs.

When he strode into the stadium as the opening batsman, the faces in the crowd, the noise, the excitement all seemed to fade into the distance. Mohan felt a calm power, an acute awareness of self, almost as if he was a detached onlooker.

He was in the zone, and he knew it.

Even as Mohan batted on, however, his team fell apart. When they broke for tea at 107 for 5, the only player left who counted as a batsman was Mohan. The rest to come were bowlers. The excited home crowd fell silent as the wickets continued to fall relentlessly. Down to the last over and two players, the team needed 31 runs to win. Mohan flicked the first ball neatly to his left and managed a quick two runs. People started leaving – this match was already over.

Mohan closed his eyes in silent prayer. Suddenly, strangely, the image of his father’s cycle rose before his mind’s eye.

He looked up. He was not yet done.

With almost poetic grace, he lifted each of the next four balls for a six. When the last ball came menacingly at him, Mohan middled it with his bat, and hurtled it through the air onto the crowds in one powerful sweep.

Yet another six! In a nail-biting finish the team had won, and with a wicket to spare!

Love Wins it in the End

When Mohan stepped forward to collect the Man of the Match award and the keys to a brand-new gearless motorcycle, the crowd broke into a thunderous applause.

It felt dreamlike. It felt magical. It felt right.

“Thank you for this award”, he said quietly into the mic. “With your permission and blessings, I would like to present this Man Of The Match Award, this lovely motorcycle, to my hero, the Man of this and every match I have played.” He paused, scanning the stands. “Appa, Mr. K. Veluchamy, please can you come over?”

Gratitude had transformed a son’s hard-won victory into a heartfelt homage.

As Veluchamy proudly collected the keys of the motorcycle from his son, his eyes misted over.

Strangely, suddenly, the image of his old cycle rose before his mind’s eye.

by Mrs Meenakumari Venkateswaran
Illustrations - Mr Sriram Santhanam