An Autobiography of Motorcycle
I was manufactured in a big factory in Goa. I was one of a number of 150 c.c. motorcycles that was transported down to Mumbai for selling. Soon I found myself waiting patiently in a highly lit showroom for someone to purchase me.
A few weeks later, a man came and bought me for his son. The boy was barely eighteen but his father was rich and could afford to buy me. I was chosen mainly because of my beautiful purple colour and graphics on my body. Moreover, I could ride my master quite fast.
My young owner was an irresponsible and rash rider. He rode me carelessly all over the town, putting us both in danger. He did not care about the risks and the possible life threatening consequences. Many times, I thought for sure that it was the end but somehow he managed to escape each time.
However, he tried too many stunts over me. On that day, my owner took me out on a reckless ride. As it was raining, the roads were wet. His object was to overtake every vehicle in front of him. After a few near misses, he finally made a mistake and slammed head first into the back of a truck. I slid uncontrollably under the vehicle.
That was the end of him. In a few minutes I was recovered from under the truck. In a few minutes later I was repaired and sold again to a middle-aged man who delivered newspapers for a living. For the next four years, I was made to run thousands of kilometres carrying loads of newspapers.
The hard work took its toll on me. After several repairs and faults in my engine, my owner decided that it was the time to retire me. I was too worn-out to be of any use anymore. Therefore, I was sold to a garage owner where he stripped me of my parts.
Today, I am nothing but a bare frame without any engine and tires. I am waiting for the day to come when I will be sold for scrap. That would be the end of me.