Helmet ki atma kata

I was born in the summer of the 27th year (if I could dare borrow a couple of lines from John Denver) with brothers and sisters in tow. Well we couldn’t tell who was who cause we all looked the same. Some big, some small, some sturdy, some strong, some dainty and small. It took a manufacturer to come and determine who was who, and paint us in shades to differentiate our gender, our purpose.

I was sold to, or rather given away free, with a brand new shiny bike (bike key saath helmet free, free). Much to the disdain of master (well that’s what I shall call him, though moron would have been a more suitable term) who thought he was too cool to look like fool wearing me on his head. And here lay the crux of my confusion. What exactly was my purpose? Was I meant to protect his head or other parts of his bike? For the amount I spent on the handle was thousand fold the time I actually spent on his head.

I somehow clashed with his image, didn’t really go with it, and his item too thought so. He saw himself a rebel against the rule and to wear me on his head would be betrayal of his rebellious streak (for nam key vaste, cause the only streak he had were the ones in his hair). Wearing me would mean that she wouldn’t be able to run her finger through his highlighted hair (I wonder how she could run her fingers through those heavily gelled, porcupine like hair of his).

So he drove fast, he drove rash. He zigged and he zagged, crisscrossing through the traffic. Much to the squeals of delights of his item, or any of his lukka friend (or friends, cause sometimes they went triple seat, and even dared at four, much like cirque du soliel). The only time I found my way to his head when he spied a traffic cop, and out compulsion wore me on his head, grudgingly. The only time I was of any use to him was when he used me as a weapon to attack and defend against the external forces.

Then one day while he zigged and he zagged and drove rather rashly (like he quite normally did) he lost control and did a flip and skidded all the way. He got a bad gash on his forehead, while I got a broken visor. He was lifted and taken away by the bystanders, while I went rolling away to edge of the road to be forgotten. I guess he learned a bitter lesson that sar salamat to pagadi hazar (if I am using this muhawara correctly).

Well I lay there, at the side of the road, all forgotten and lonely, with my broken visor as company for me. All dirty and dusty, gathering dirt, till rodents decided to make their home in me, and so I found myself of more use to them than my master had of any use for me.

Then one day I saw him speed by. A brand new shiny bike he rode, with the same item as pillion. But no helmet on his head. So guess the saying “once bitten twice shy” didn’t really apply to him.