A boy and his bicycle, nothing better defines subliminal bliss. The rudimentary simplicity of a boy on a bicycle cycling madly on green pastures and rolling hills, a warm breeze on his face, the sun beating on his back, serene music in the background. He is on an adventure, going cross country, standing in the shade of willow trees, eating hard boiled eggs with bread and butter and a pinch of salt. All done Enid Blyton style.

Except for boys living in the Banjar Veeran Abadis [desolate suburbia] of Karachi, aptly called Defense Housing Authority or sometimes referred to as pul kai us paar [across the bridge] in the early eighties. This reference being a sarcastic jab at the disenchantment of the local population at the wealthy elites who continuously suck the country dry. The housing authority build for the protectors of the country (read the army) had soon become one of the most desirable places to live in the congested and polluted megalopolis of Karachi. But at that time, I was just a child so the enormity of the situation ceased to hold my attention or my worries.

We lived in Phase V, the very edge of Defense and our relatives and well wishers were in awe of when we moved to a rickety house build on A Street. One could hear the ocean crashing on the sea view walls in a still night and the empty plots behind the house were a flourishing kikar [acadia arabica] bushes. Thorny evil bushes, imported from Australia to camouflage the Malir airstrip during WW II has spread like wildfire and adapted rather readily to the Sindh climate. These bushes had all kinds of hidden treasure within them including fire breathing chameleons, lost tennis and cricket ball, briefcases containing gold bullions and most often they served as a graveyard for empty Murree brewery beer bottles that our partying neighbors from the middle east threw in with gusto. Eventually, a neighborhood committee decided to protest these wild parties, much to my chagrin for I had just started associating Arabic music with belly dancing.

Still, as a kid I lived for the afternoons, the magical time which would make the various finicky adults in my household sleepy and tired and thereby retiring to the cool air conditioned room, provided my Dad was not home, since he and air conditioners never got along well. Years later I realized that it had something to do with KESC (Karachi Electric Supply Corporation). When everyone was asleep, and there were no more shouts of, 'wear your slippers', 'brush your teeth', 'do your homework', 'clean your room' the urchins ruled A-street. With bowl cut hairstyle, courtesy of the medieval torture chamber that my family called school, kalli kalooti rangat [well tanned], some genetic some self inflicted, scratched knees and bruised elbows artfully complimented by dried blood and torn skin, the urchins [Hoosh Bachas] were a force to be reckoned with.

Our street had quite a few kids, probably due to the fact that Sathi and Sultan brand contraceptives were not being advertised on Pakistan television (PTV). Some were older then us, some spoiled brats, while some had elder brothers who were in boarding schools thereby every summer was a intensified learning experience on the ways of the world and the human body. The rag tag band had only one requirement, a working bicycle. Due to certain unfortunate timing of my conception and the cyclical rhetoric of Pakistani politics, my bicycle was a hand me down from my older brother, who was a budding teenager and had no time for riding a bicycle. This was my second bicycle, the first hand me down was an English made Raleigh, which I methodically destroyed when I gained possession of it, so on getting possession of my second bike I was warned not to ruin it. I was afraid of just that, for this bike was an Orange Peco, a product of Pakistan engineering corporation, a sister company of PIDC Pakistan Industrial Development Corporation. To this day, I think of PECO as an orange bike and PIDC as the place for best paans in Karachi.

Needless to say I hated PECO, it was rickety and shook with venom when I pedaled, the seat had springs concealed for the sole purpose to pierce my skinny butt, the chain wobbled and was susceptible to coming off the gears, the tires were bald and swollen, and it was Orange, a color I considered feminine. Incidentally I have had to deal with these color wars all my life, from a aqua green guitar to a rusting yellow Mercedes, I always had a hard time getting the color I desired. But ride I must, and I did.

It was a good bike, when it went downhill and that I think was from my sheer tenaciousness. Otherwise, I was always the laggard, peddling furiously to keep up with my age group but caught with 10 year old babies, and some where even 9. I had just turned 11 and the world was literally my oyster, or more aptly my samosa.

One day I came home riding my bicycle hard and as usual, going though the small gate, instead of opening the big gate, an antic that usually scratched my knees and lo and behold I see a bicycle being unloaded form the car. My heart rejoiced, at last my prayers have been answered.

From afar, the cycle looked like a chopper, almost like a BMX bandit, that was alike a dream come true, as it rested, I was a little puzzled that it was a little smaller then I would expect a growing boys bike to be. It was blue, had a 3-gear mid section, which said Sohraab, Yes Sohrab the mystical Persian warrior, the son of Rustum, who unknowingly killed his own son on the behest of his King. I felt elevated, if not a BMX so what, a Sohrab was still a better bike then a PECO, but what was that behind the rear wheel, training wheels... No! At this moment I hear my Dad walk in with Fanoos, he was in a good mood, laughing and joking and then he said, Fanoos beta, this is for you.

Now Fanoos [Chandelier] is my evil little sister, aptly named for her ability to outshine everyone else... but somehow I was the only one privy to her evil nature, everyone else thought she was God's gift. Turning a color of green, well as green as my complexion allowed, I gripped the handles my PECO furiously, and then dropped it on the gateway with much anguish. Incidentally, the fall was overshadowed by Fanoos's evil laugh and shrieks, oh Daddy, it's for me, how nice of you. As if that was not bad enough, I was instructed to teach the little brat how to ride the bicycle. Immediately, an evil plan started forming into the back of my mind. That smirk on my face was noticed by Fanoos and she immediately came up to me and said 'but it will take me so long to ride it, maybe bhai (brother) can take me riding'.

Of course, being the only one impervious to her sly evil nature, I immediately grumbled something and ran off into my room, too brood and contemplate my next move, while bemoaning the cruelty of this world.

Fortunately for me, Fanoos was always more into doing evil things like studying, surviving my temper tantrums, dressing up in stupid costumes, crying, and playing with dolls, so within a week, the cycle was abandoned by her and on the 5th day, with the help of screw drivers, I took off the training wheel and set Sohrab free from his childhood and helped it take it's first step into adulthood.

It was pathetic, it made me feel small at an age when I wanted to be taller then Amita Bachan and cooler then James Bond. The wheels were small, the bike was slow, although it was pretty, it had none of the raw unbridled adventure of my PECO. For a few days, I exchanged it with some fat kid for a chopper, but it was too low for me and the kid was always harping about the fact that he let me ride his bike, while all he did was drink coke and eat potato chips. I was torn, between beautiful shiny blue bike that ran well, had functioning brakes, and was silent and my PECO, which could be heard for miles, even the puncture walla kids made fun of it, but was a real manÕs bike, with a high saddle, big wheels, my feet did not reach the ground when I pedaled and the brakes did not always work, so I had to jump off on one side to bring it to a rolling stop. However, riding the PECO was driving a bare basic racing car devoid of creature comforts. The choice was clear, after a couple of weeks of flip flopping, I stuck to my guns and rode my PECO everywhere, even adding a satchel (actually an old pillow case stolen from the dhobi's [washer] load of laundry) to carry my Diana air gun for hunting the fire breathing chameleons and the ill-tempered crows found in the wild kikar jungles of the badlands, but that is another story.

Oh and the Sohrab, well it just rusted away until it was sold my our enterprising naukar [houseboy] to the tin paper balti wallah (the recycling vendor). To my knowledge Fanoos never learned to ride a bike and concentrated on her studies, until she went mountain biking in Peru and send me pictures of her on a real biking adventure in the tropical rain forest on the banks of the Amazon, and I turned green -- or as green as my complexion can.

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