Chapter 5: Wheels of Fate

After hanging up, I was already drenched in sweat and panting by the time I reached the other side of the street, but I didn’t dare slow down.

My shirt clung to my back, my lungs burning as if I’d run a marathon in the May heat. A beggar on the footpath, too weary to care, watched the madness with dull eyes.

Storefront after storefront flashed by until I finally saw the familiar sign.

The letters were faded, but the red-and-yellow board was unmistakable: 'Singh Cycle & Bike Mart'.

“Bhaiya, wait up!”

A tall, burly middle-aged man was pulling down the shop’s shutter. Hearing me shout, he turned around in surprise.

He wore an old India cricket T-shirt, his face shiny with sweat, mouth set in a grim line. For a second, I thought he’d refuse to even talk.

“Bhaiya, wait, I want to buy a bike—a bike!” I was out of breath, hands on my knees, talking in broken sentences.

I must have looked a mess—hair wild, dust all over my face, axe still slung at my side. But desperation gives you a kind of honesty money can’t buy.

The owner waved his hand. “Not selling, not selling. I have to hurry and stock up. My wife’s already mad.”

He glanced at the closed shops around, eyes darting nervously, as if he expected a mob to descend any moment.

I whipped out my phone and quickly scanned the UPI QR code on the glass door. The shop’s speaker immediately announced, “Payment received, fifty thousand rupees.”

The robotic voice echoed in the empty shop, louder than ever. Fifty thousand! A month’s earnings in a single beep. I almost laughed at the absurdity.

The owner’s eyes widened. “Arrey, did you win the lottery?”

His voice was half mocking, half awed. He scratched his head, disbelief plain on his face.

Yes, I did. I won the grand prize handed down by fate—the prize of life.

But I couldn’t say that. Wiping the sweat from my face, I steadied myself and said, “Bhaiya, I’m rushing home to be with my parents. Look, the traffic’s jammed—no way to drive a car.”

My voice cracked a little, but he understood. In a crisis, family is everything.

“Give me your best in-stock bike. I’m in a hurry, I’ll leave as soon as I buy it—won’t delay you at all.”

He hesitated, then nodded. 'Chalo, come inside.'

“Alright.” The owner opened the glass door and led me to a red Royal Enfield. He patted the body. “This one—Classic 350, sport model, sells for forty thousand here. All the accessories are installed; you can ride it out right now.”

The bike gleamed, almost out of place among the dust and panic. I felt a rush of gratitude, followed by a pang of guilt for all those who couldn’t afford this luxury.

I glanced at it and didn’t hesitate. “Okay, I’ll take this one.”

My hands shook, not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of what I was really buying—a chance for us to live.

My hands ran over the handles, checking the tank. The seat was still wrapped in plastic, the kind that always sticks to your trousers in the heat.

“No need to refund the extra ten thousand for now. Do you have petrol? Give me a few cans, and two spare tyres.”

I knew petrol would be worth its weight in gold soon, so I made sure to stock up as much as possible.

“And give me a set of tools for taking apart the bike.”

His eyes widened further, but he didn’t question. Some part of him sensed the urgency.

In less than ten minutes, I was sitting on my new bike, five cans of petrol strapped to the back, two new tyres hanging from the side, and an axe tucked at my waist.

The bike looked like something out of a desi action film, ready for a chase scene. If only the circumstances weren’t so grim.

This setup looked a bit wild.

But in these times, 'wild' might just be what keeps us alive.

Before leaving, I reminded the owner to definitely head somewhere high up, preferably a hill. He gave me a thoughtful look—not sure if he’d listen, but that was all I could do.

He muttered a quiet 'Thank you, beta,' as I sped away. Maybe, just maybe, he’d tell his family. Maybe it would save them, too.