12 KBPS Summers : 1-The Sunday scooter ride

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Note: This collection is a journey back to the simple, sun-drenched days of 90s and early 2000s India. From the steady thrum of a family Bajaj scooter to the patient magic of dial-up internet, these stories capture the gentle rhythm of a childhood where joy was found in the smallest, everyday moments. 

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On Sunday mornings, the quiet street always woke up to the same familiar sound.

Dug-dug-dug-dug-shhh.

Dad was outside, leaning the heavy, metallic-blue Bajaj scooter to one side. He kicked the starter pedal with his right foot, waiting for the engine to roar to life. He always had to tilt it just right to get the petrol flowing.

"Nupur, come on! The chhena-poda fellow will run out of warm ones!" Dad called out.

Chhenapoda is a delicacy of Odisha made of steamed chhena, baked a little burnt to give it that superb smoky taste and fragrance. Nupur didn't need to be told twice. She ran out of the front door, her rubber slippers slapping against her feet.

Her favorite spot in the whole world was right at the front of the scooter. She stepped onto the black rubber mat of the floorboard, standing tall right between Dad's knees. She gripped the thin metal handle near the speedometer.

"Ready?" Dad asked, wrapping his hands around the handlebars on either side of her.

"Ready!" she beamed.

The cool morning air rushed past her face as they rolled down the lane. Standing at the front made Nupur feel like she was flying. She was the co-pilot of the grandest vehicle on the road. Every time Dad turned the handle to accelerate, she felt the vibrations of the engine.

"Hold tight," Dad said as they turned onto the main road.

They passed the local dairy booth, where people were already lining up with their empty steel milk cans. The sweet, caramel-like, smoky smell of baked cheese filled the air as they approached the corner sweet shop, where the fresh chhenapoda was being sliced into warm, soft pieces.

Dad parked the scooter on its heavy double-stand. "Go get a toffee, and I'll get the chhenapoda," he said, handing her a shiny one-rupee coin for a quick piece of orange candy from the glass jar next to the counter.

Nupur held the coin tightly. It felt cool and important in her small palm.

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On the way back, Nupur stood in her usual spot, but this time she was carefully holding the warm, grease-stained leaf-liner and newspaper packet of chhenapoda in her hands. The rich, smoky steam drifted right up to her nose.

"Don't eat it all before we get home," Dad teased, his voice vibrating slightly with the hum of the Bajaj engine.

"I won't!" she laughed, though she secretly pinched a tiny, caramelized corner off the edge.

As they turned back into their lane, she saw her cousins waiting by the gate, waving at them. The simple Sunday ride was over, but the sweet taste of the morning was just getting started.