My Biker Girl
My Biker Girl5 mins 11K 5 mins 11K
Just like any other day it was pitch black when I woke up. The moon up high in no mood to ward off, the stars still shining to their fullest and the clock ticked 2. Again I was up the whole night thinking of how people sleep. Yes right, I was a clear victim of Insomnia and my mother called me a male version of sleeping beauty. Scrolling through facebook, instagram and youtube, I somehow managed to get past that night too. However that morning was a bit different. Well, not a bit but quite different. I put on my favourite black shirt and a pair of white jeans that was it for an office look.
I kick started my bike and was off on my daily office route on The Western Express Highway, 100 km per hour ;yes that was my take. With utter concentration on the road, I continued to ride. What I saw the next moment, was a black Unicorn over taking me. I could feel my ego crush to death. The next instant speed dropped from 100 to 80 then to 60. In the middle of the highway I was startled to see what I saw, a girl in a black coloured outfit that could be nothing other than a burkha. A Muslim girl with a burkha on a bike, that even a geared bike? Well I had to stop being shocked and catch up to her speed, for my ego had to be brought back. Sixty to 80 and then furiously to 100 and I was there beside her. Black from top to bottom, her helmet, her Burkha, her scarf and her shoes. Her eyes covered with black sunglasses and hands covered with black gloves, all I could see was her well sculpted, pink tinted lips and her protruding nose. With all I could see, her smirk was clearly visible. My blood rushed all emotions at peak. Hello I’m not being a sexist but no woman has dared to over take me and then smirk and on the top of that A BIKE? That isn’t normal. My eyes were less on the road and more on her. She literally snapped at me and said “Dude Concentrate!” Damn, she felt it for sure, these womanly INSTINCTS. Not that I fell for her at the moment, because that is something I don’t believe in. I think the fact that she was bold enough to over take me, liberal enough to choose to cover herself and independent enough to manage a bike, was something that was captivating about her.
I somehow managed to reach office in a single piece without any cuts, bruises or stitches, but all my thoughts wandered around the same girl for a month. Who was that girl? Why a burkha with a bike? What’s her thought process like? What does she believe in? Where do I find her? For a month these questions simply kept multiplying. Every day I went by the same route, but now in search of that girl and not just to reach office. As if insomnia was any less disturbing that she happened. The little that I slept during the night, that too was ruined. I searched for her all through the internet, but that lady was a complete unknown case to the internet. Google couldn’t find anything about her, so that’s more than enough for a proof. I lost all hopes; for once I also thought she might be a ghost. I had to shut that idea off, the minute it entered my brain. Why did I even want to meet her, see her ride again, want her to smirk at me? I had not a single answer for these questions.
One evening I was scrolling through the internet like everyday when I overheard my mother having a conversation with my aunt
“I think Rida is a nice girl for Zamin to get married to.”
“I don’t think so, don’t you know Rida rides a bike.”
“Oh really? I din't know that.”
This conversation had irritated me, first of all they were looking for a suitable partner for me, without even asking me and on the top of that they are rejecting a girl just because she rides a bike. I had no option but to interrupt.
“Mom, what’s it that you’ll are talking about?
“Nothing love, just that your aunt was suggesting Rida for you, but I rejected her, don’t worry.”
“And why did you reject her?” though I knew why, but hey she has to get it that riding a bike is not only man’s realm.
“Dear, she rides a bike.”
“So? So many girls ride bikes now-a-days c’mon mom.”
“Dear she rides the kind of bike you have.” Her reply shook me completely. A new hope rose in me, maybe she was the one, maybe not. How could I find her so easily? Was she a ghost? If she was then she couldn’t be Rida. I had to again cut that thought off completely.
“You mean a...... a unicorn?” I asked almost stuttering.
“What’s a unicorn now?” God why doesn’t she have even the least knowledge on bikes? I had to quickly Google a picture of a black unicorn and show it to her.
“This?” I asked her.
“Yes I think it is this?” I immediately lost control over my legs and fell on my knees. I felt immense happiness, for a vague mystery I was trying to solve since a month, maybe I was there. Maybe now I could ask her whatever I wanted to. But there was no confirmation.
“Mom do you have any picture of Rida?”
“Maybe, let me see. But child what’s wrong with you. Why did you react so absurdly? You know her?”
“Mom picture please, I’ll explain everything later.” I was too restless, to comprehend any of her words.
Those well sculpted lips, that fine long nose, yes it was all in that one picture. Yes she was the biker girl; yes she was my biker girl. Wait ... MY biker girl? My bad, she was THE biker girl.Later I thought there were chances she could be MY biker girl.
I narrated the whole story to my mother and she thought I had lost it.
“Mom, I want to meet her with the prospect of getting married.”
“So that’s how I first met your grandmother and was mad about her. Since then it’s been 40 years and still counting.”
“That pretty cool grandpa.”
“My biker girl, our grandchildren are calling me cool, you can’t smirk at me anymore.”