The Greater Honour

Some communities we step into. Then there are some that quietly rebuilds us.

This morning was one of those reminders. A BCC felicitation meet. They do it once every couple of months. Mementos. Certificates. First 100. First 200. 300. 400. Applause warmer than the coffee later.

This time it was bigger. The Anil Kadasur Awards. 100 x 100s. 200 x 100s. 300. 400. And one crazily unhinged human with over 1400 centuries under his belt.

Then the Jigani Everesters. An FE, several HEs, including me… and proudly, my kid.

And then they asked me to stay, and give away the QE mementos.

I stood there smiling, pretending that I belonged. Inside, I was burning. I quietly remembered the early 23 version of myself. It was Feb of 2023 when I first attended a  BCC gathering in front of the Venkatappa Art Gallery. I didn’t even know how to lube a chain properly. I recall being stunned by how seriously they celebrated milestones. The first 100 wasn’t just a 100. It was initiation. A quiet handshake into something larger.

I never imagined I’d receive a certificate.I certainly never dreamed I’d be handing one over.

Receiving an award is recognition. But giving one... That is trust. And trust is heavier. This wasn’t the first time I’ve felt that weight. Last year, Velokofi asked me to hand over a scholarship to a child they sponsor. I remember holding that envelope. Holding my composure. Holding back tears. That moment wasn’t about cycling. It was about being allowed to represent something bigger. Bigger than miles. Generous

And then there is Chavittuvandi. The name sounds playful. But they carry the same quiet fire. Different group. Same spirit. Less noise. More heart. The kind of people who show up at dawn without announcement and stay long after the ride ends.

Between these three spaces, something shifted in me. I arrived clueless. I stayed curious. And somewhere along the way, they decided that I was one of them.

These groups don’t just measure milestones. They measure consistency. They measure presence. They measure whether you return after a bad ride. After a bad month. After life knocks the wind out of you.

Cycling has given me far more honour than I deserve. And I don’t mean medals or mementos. I mean belonging.

This isn’t a thank-you note to any of these clubs. That’s not the intent. There are a few who have seen my battles. My failings. And my rare wins. The few who read this should know. That when I stand on a stage to hand someone a certificate, I’m not thinking about the kilometres ridden or the elevation gained. I’m thinking about the man who pedalled into a meetup two years ago and felt small. I’m thinking about the hands that showed him how to adjust a saddle. How to clean a chain. How to keep sipping water on the Anchetty climb, when pride says you’re fine. I’m thinking about how a community can make a grown man cry. And yet, somehow protect his dignity while doing it.

If I seem overly attached to cycling, now you know why. It isn’t the sport. It’s the people. And I carry their generosity like a second medal. One that doesn’t split into two... but multiplies. Quietly. Everytime that someone else is called to the stage.

The Art of Letting Go: Completing Conversations

When I sent her that message, I was being my usual shamelessly flirtatious self. But her reply hit me hard. Deep. Real. At first, I thought she hadn’t understood me at all, that I had failed to communicate. But no. That’s not what happened. I communicated accurately. She just received it selectively. And those are not the same thing.

I think I understand why she misunderstood me. It wasn’t a matter of misreading my words. She filtered them through a survival lens. "I don’t keep expectations anymore," she had said. "It hurts less." And then, "I’m so done." That’s not misreading. That’s self-protection. When someone decides that hope is too expensive, they downgrade everything generous into something manageable. My message wasn’t rejected. It was defanged. She turned it into gratitude because gratitude is safer than being truly seen.

I was pointing at fullness. But she heard resignation. That gap isn’t about intelligence or emotional mismatch; it’s about where each of us stands with hope. I sense the uncomfortable truth; I’m speaking from possibility, and she’s living from closure. Like anyone who’s closed a chapter too soon, she wouldn’t want metaphors that suggest there’s still blank paper. We’ve each learned different lessons from disappointment. I learned how to still feel. She learned how to feel less. It’s not a gap I can bridge with better words. It’s a fork in the road.

I’ve admired her all these years for a reason. But admiration doesn’t always mean walk together. I get it now. I just hope she does too. Even if not in the precise, lyrical way I feel it. But it’s fine. No emotional litter left on the road. For forked roads aren’t failures. They’re proof that two people listened honestly to different truths. No detours needed. No what-ifs to babysit. 

So, I’m letting the conversation end here. She seeks completion, not further dialogue and I ought to respect her wish with dignity, I realise. And this quiet sense of 'I said what was true, without asking for anything in return' is mine to keep. Some things are meant to echo once and then go still.

Somewhere Inside, the Train is Still Moving

An old friend just sent me this photograph. More like a scan of a memory. And it’s doing something sneaky. Not nostalgia. Contrast. We’re probably headed to IMTEX, 2004. I know this because that’s what our lives revolved around back then. Cheap tickets. Big hopes. Industrial exhibitions. And the belief that something would click if we just kept moving.

Whoever clicked this was either hopelessly clumsy or quietly brilliant. No faces. No identities. Just motion. Two idiots. Losers. With nothing to show for themselves. Jobless. Directionless. Officially not doing well. And yet, visibly alive. Singing. Dancing. Making a narrow aisle feel like a stage. Borrowing joy from the rhythm of a moving train. From motion. Because motion was all we had.

But it’s obvious we’re enjoying ourselves. Because problems were crude back then. Big? Yes. But stupid-big. We could see them. Name them. We could imagine fixing them. Of course, those days weren’t kind. Confidence was in tatters. The future looked suspiciously like a blank page someone forgot to print on. Life wasn’t going anywhere. But yet, life was simpler. Brutal, yes. But simple. You could point at it. You could say, 'This is wrong.' Or, 'This needs fixing.' And there were solutions. Maybe not easy ones. But visible ones.

Now? A better CV. A heavier resume. Nicer nouns attached to life. But the questions, they too have mutated. They’ve grown fangs. And they don’t come with the courtesy of being fully understood. The problems are sophisticated. Polished. Abstract. They don’t even stand still long enough to be understood, let alone solved. If life was a straight road with potholes then, it’s a beautifully paved maze with no exit sign today. It doesn’t seem to go anywhere. The good things have increased. Undeniably. But still, when I add it all up, the emotional balance sheet feels oddly negative.

And yet, this photo refuses to agree with that conclusion. It reminds me that joy once coexisted with far less. That uncertainty once had music. That, as young men with no faces and no guarantees, we could still dance in public. Unconcerned about dignity. Or destination. The joy in the photo isn’t because things were good. It’s because the math was simple. Pain minus effort equalled hope. Today, the equation has too many variables. And half of them are emotional. Invisible. And refuse to cooperate.

Maybe life hasn’t degraded. Maybe it has just become heavier. Quieter. More inward. The faces are obscured in this photograph, but the lightness isn’t. And perhaps that’s the hopeful part. That even when everything was unresolved, something essential was already intact.

Also, that clumsy/smart photographer knew exactly what he was doing. By hiding all the faces, he turned it into a universal memory. It’s not us in 2004. It’s anyone who once had nothing but still had rhythm.

I look at the picture and sigh.
Not in despair.
More like recognition.

Somewhere inside, the train is still moving. Anyone who can dance in a train aisle while life is falling apart hasn’t lost that person. He’s just harder to summon now.