Learning to Let Go
Kumara is only a name in my memories. I think he was dark, and not
that tall. I think he wore shorts, but I can’t be sure. What I do
remember about him is related to bikes.
Since my brother was the leader of the pack, even though the pack had three girls and only one boy, we were mostly tomboys. We never had Barbies and tea sets to play with. Among our various treasures were our bikes. Since the pack of cousins was nearly all the same age, we went through the same phases together. The most excited phase for me was the bike phase. Each of us had a cycle and we loved racing each other around the heart shaped lawn in my uncle’s garden.
We never spent too much time with the training wheels, and had our knees scraped too many times. I still remember the time I fell off, my bike landing on me. The sun was setting, and my body was covered in sweat. I knew my knee was bleeding and dreaded the moment the adults would clean the wound. When my uncle and aunt rushed to me, I told them to leave me there. I thought I was paralyzed, and told them to inform my mother of my death. Of course, they didn’t even listen to me, and pulled me away from the bike. By then they were used to our many wounds and scratches.
Kumara, who was staying with my uncle at that time, he would have been 18, taught us how to cycle. I still remember him pushing the bike forward, telling us to trust him. He would run behind us, hidden in a cloud of dust as we learned to cycle. After the first few falls, we managed to cycle without the training wheels. Kumara still pushed us around, since it was more fun that way.
He left before we went from kids bicycles to those adults use. Then we outgrew the lawn. My brother and I cycled the streets and then the puddles of muddy water and dusty roads stopped being interesting and fun. Now we don’t cycle and we don’t have bikes. Kumara too, is gone. I don’t know where he is, or if he remembers us. Maybe he doesn’t but it doesn’t matter. Kumara will never be forgotten by us.
Before he left, Kumara also made criminals out of us. We were alone at my uncle’s, Kumara the responsible adult who was supposed to take care of us. My uncle had a motorbike, a white one, I think. None of us were allowed on this. Kumara found the keys on this day and took each of us around the lawn, once. We weren’t allowed to demand for a second round and we had to promise not to tell any one.
I remember very little of this ride. I can’t remember if the wind blew through my hair, and I smiled into the rotating world. I can’t remember if he was going fast or slow. Maybe this is one of those tricks our minds play on us. Maybe Kumara never took us on that bike. I don’t want to know how real this memory is though.
Since then I’ve never been on a motor bike. I’d love to, with the hope that I can then add something to my memory of that bike ride. Yet, it just doesn’t seem fair to my memory of Kumara. It feels like I would be cheating on that memory.
“Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he is not; a sense of humor to console him for what he is”
-Sir Francis Bacon
http://www.nation.lk/edition/lifestyle/item/17280-learning-to-let-go.html
Since my brother was the leader of the pack, even though the pack had three girls and only one boy, we were mostly tomboys. We never had Barbies and tea sets to play with. Among our various treasures were our bikes. Since the pack of cousins was nearly all the same age, we went through the same phases together. The most excited phase for me was the bike phase. Each of us had a cycle and we loved racing each other around the heart shaped lawn in my uncle’s garden.
We never spent too much time with the training wheels, and had our knees scraped too many times. I still remember the time I fell off, my bike landing on me. The sun was setting, and my body was covered in sweat. I knew my knee was bleeding and dreaded the moment the adults would clean the wound. When my uncle and aunt rushed to me, I told them to leave me there. I thought I was paralyzed, and told them to inform my mother of my death. Of course, they didn’t even listen to me, and pulled me away from the bike. By then they were used to our many wounds and scratches.
Kumara, who was staying with my uncle at that time, he would have been 18, taught us how to cycle. I still remember him pushing the bike forward, telling us to trust him. He would run behind us, hidden in a cloud of dust as we learned to cycle. After the first few falls, we managed to cycle without the training wheels. Kumara still pushed us around, since it was more fun that way.
He left before we went from kids bicycles to those adults use. Then we outgrew the lawn. My brother and I cycled the streets and then the puddles of muddy water and dusty roads stopped being interesting and fun. Now we don’t cycle and we don’t have bikes. Kumara too, is gone. I don’t know where he is, or if he remembers us. Maybe he doesn’t but it doesn’t matter. Kumara will never be forgotten by us.
Before he left, Kumara also made criminals out of us. We were alone at my uncle’s, Kumara the responsible adult who was supposed to take care of us. My uncle had a motorbike, a white one, I think. None of us were allowed on this. Kumara found the keys on this day and took each of us around the lawn, once. We weren’t allowed to demand for a second round and we had to promise not to tell any one.
I remember very little of this ride. I can’t remember if the wind blew through my hair, and I smiled into the rotating world. I can’t remember if he was going fast or slow. Maybe this is one of those tricks our minds play on us. Maybe Kumara never took us on that bike. I don’t want to know how real this memory is though.
Since then I’ve never been on a motor bike. I’d love to, with the hope that I can then add something to my memory of that bike ride. Yet, it just doesn’t seem fair to my memory of Kumara. It feels like I would be cheating on that memory.
“Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he is not; a sense of humor to console him for what he is”
-Sir Francis Bacon
http://www.nation.lk/edition/lifestyle/item/17280-learning-to-let-go.html
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