Do you know the first sound you recognized in your life? I do. It was the sound of my dad’s motorcycle coming home. I listened to it from when I was days old, everyday. I don’t know exactly how old I was when I had this never-spoken-before fantasy, but certainly younger than 6-7 years. Because I know I was in Guntur then, and we left that town after my 2nd class.
I used to imagine my dad as a movie hero. Mainly because he was strong, yet calm and composed. He looked smart; always wore clean clothes, belt and leather shoes. He never scolded me nor beat me. He also had answers for everything. He was patient and answered my endless questions. Very rarely he used to say that he did not know the answer, but I did not believe him. He was probably protecting me by not telling the real answer.
But when my dad was driving his Yezdi with his grey helmet on, he was not any ordinary hero. I always wondered how that helmet was so hard outside and yet so soft inside. I did not see many driving Yezdi, and certainly did not see many wearing a helmet like that. With his bike, helmet and several other factors (like he had a heroine in my mom), he was not less than any James Bond. Yes, my dad took me to James Bond and Bruce Lee movies; My dad was not Bruce Lee because that was me. I could even beat my dad if I was really angry. I will leave that topic for a different day.
When I went out with my dad, I used to sit on the petrol tank of Yezdi so I could see everything (also because my mom and sister sat behind my dad). I liked the wind hitting my face. It made me feel that we were going faster. I always counted how many other bikes, scooters we passed. I used to get angry if a different bike passed us, then I used to push my dad to speed up. I am not sure if he listened to me, but more often than not, we managed to defeat the other guys (who were probably the bad guys).
Then I imagined that my dad had been chased by the police everyday on his way back from work. Of course my dad could never do something wrong, so the police must have been mistaken about my dad. Anyway, my dad was so fast that they never caught him. Sometime after he came home, I used to look down the street and see if police are still on their way. They never came, because my dad was that fast.
Then there was a dent in the helmet. I remember asking my dad how that dent happened. I don’t remember his answer, probably because I thought he was not telling the real reason. The real reason I believed was that police one day shot at him, and his helmet took the bullet. I told the same to my friends. They were wowed by that fact
Other post about my dad: https://atluris.wordpress.com/2011/06/18/most-important-call/