Roshan Lal’s Cycle

The Circle of Days

Every morning in the house began with the same thin sound of tap water hitting a plastic bucket.

It was never a full stream. Just a measured fall of metal against plastic, patient and controlled. Roshan Lal woke before the bucket filled. He lay still for a moment, listening to the rhythm, as if confirming that the day had begun correctly.

He rose without stretching and folded the bedding carefully, smoothing the sheet with the side of his palm. The cement floor held the night’s cold inside it. In winter, it travelled up through his heels. In summer, it felt like baked stone.

He bathed in the small washroom at the back. The soap, cut into halves, rested on a cracked dish. He poured water over himself with a steel mug dented near the rim. Afterwards, he stood before the wall where a calendar of Goddess Durga hung; her lion mid-roar, trident raised. Next to it, slightly tilted, was a framed photograph of the Golden Temple, the water around it permanently golden under printed light.

He joined his hands. Not long. Just enough.

His wardrobe consisted of two loose black trousers and three shirts. One white that had turned faintly cream, one pale blue with a thinning collar, and one checkered shirt reserved for market days. He rotated them with mathematical fairness.

In the kitchen, Kamla’s bangles made a faint clinking sound as she rolled out rotis. The smell of atta browning on the tawa mixed with the sharpness of onions frying.

“Ajj aloo-gobhi ae,” she said, not turning.

“Theek ae,” he replied softly.

Pooja, his daughter, was already awake. She had swept the front room, the soft scratching sound of the jhaadu against cement marking the true start of morning. A small line of dust collected neatly near the door. Her hair was tied back tightly. Later she would sit at the sewing machine by the window where light fell in a square on the floor. The machine’s pedal would move steadily under her heel. She had completed her graduation two years ago. The framed certificate lay inside a trunk under folded shawls. No one mentioned it now.

Deepu, his son, shuffled out, shirt half tucked.

“Papa,” he began between sips of tea from a yellowing plastic cup, “O Batra uncle ni gali wale, ohna ne nava scooter leya ae… neele rang da.”

Roshan Lal adjusted the strap of his old wristwatch.

“Hm.”

The answer was neither approval nor envy. It was a sound that closed the topic without friction.

Kamla glanced briefly at him, measuring his expression. There was none to measure.

He finished his tea. The plastic cup left a faint ring on the steel plate beneath it.

He picked up his steel tiffin, its latch slightly bent, and stepped into the veranda. The cycle leaned against the wall where it always did. It had once been black. Now it was a tired grey with memory of paint. A red cloth was tied over the seat to soften the worn-out cushioning. The bell gave a dull, tired ring when pressed.

He wheeled it out carefully, guiding it past the narrow gate.

The road to the mandi cut past the old cotton ginning mill. Its tall chimney leaned slightly, as if reconsidering its own purpose. Once, trucks had lined this stretch. Now stray cattle stood where cotton bales had been weighed. The iron gate of the mill was permanently locked, rust spreading like an infection across it. Posters of political candidates smiling with folded hands, peeled in strips from the wall. Dust lifted easily at the slightest movement, as though the town was made of powder and memory.

He pedalled steadily, never fast.

At Harbans Singh’s commission agency, the air carried the smell of jute sacks, cotton seed and old paper. Ledgers bound in red cloth were stacked like obedient children. Roshan Lal took his place on the wooden takhat near the weighing scale.

He wrote in blue ink, straight lines, careful numerals. His handwriting had not changed in twenty-five years. Columns balanced. Margins respected. He found comfort in numbers behaving.

Farmers came and went. Some complained about rates. Some complained about rain. Harbans Singh complained about both.

“Bau ji, kam ghat gaya hai,” Harbans would say, shaking his head.

Roshan Lal nodded. The nod had many uses.

At one-thirty, he opened his tiffin and ate in measured bites. He wiped his hands with the same checked handkerchief he had carried for years. Outside, labourers passed with sacks on their backs. Pigs rummaged through garbage and filth under the wall that cordoned the railway tracks from the mandi. The wall once advertised pesticide brands in bold paint. The paint had faded. The wall had not been repainted.

Evening arrived without announcement.

On the way back, he often stopped at Gupta’s kirana shop. The shop smelled of turmeric, detergent powder and stale biscuits. Gupta sat behind the counter, glasses slipping down his nose.

“Gupta ji, do kilo khand, packet patti te mungi sabat,” Roshan Lal would say.

Gupta weighed it carefully, then opened his small notebook.

“Hisaab wich likh leya e,” he would murmur, licking his thumb before turning the page.

Roshan Lal nodded. The notebook had held their transactions for years. It was thin but sufficient.

At home, tea was poured again into the same yellowing plastic cups. Pooja’s sewing machine hummed in the corner. Deepu recited multiplication tables unevenly.

“Chhe saate?” Kamla prompted from the kitchen.

“Athtaali…” Deepu hesitated.

“Chhe saate beyali,” Roshan Lal corrected, not looking up.

Dinner was eaten on the floor. The television in the neighbour’s house carried louder laughter than anything in theirs. Kamla spoke about rising vegetable prices. Pooja asked if more thread needed to be bought. Deepu described a cricket shot he had nearly hit for six.

Roshan Lal listened. He did not interrupt unless necessary.

By ten, the house dimmed. He folded his trousers over a chair. His watch was placed near the pillow. Outside, the cycle rested in the veranda, leaning against the wall like a familiar shadow.

The town settled into itself.

Same as Yesterday

The tap began again.

Water struck plastic with the same restrained patience. The bucket filled. The house stirred. Nothing in the air suggested that any day could be different from another.

Roshan Lal bathed, prayed before Durga and the Golden Temple photograph, wore the pale blue shirt this time. The collar had thinned near the edges; he folded it inward so it sat evenly.

Pooja swept the front room again. The dust line near the threshold returned as if it had been waiting outside all night. Deepu hurried through tea.

“Late ho reha haan,” he muttered, adjusting his belt.

Kamla handed Roshan Lal his tiffin.

“Shaam nu wapas aunde hoye aloo le aayo. Muk gaye ne.”

“Theek,” he nodded at her and wheeled the cycle out.

The morning air carried a faint smell of damp earth mixed with cow dung cakes drying on walls. Somewhere a transistor radio played an old Punjabi song; the singer’s voice thin and metallic. A stray dog stretched in the middle of the lane and shifted lazily as he rang his dull bell.

The road widened near the old cotton mill. Sunlight hit the chimney at an angle that made its cracks visible.

As he pedalled past, two older men stood near the locked gate as if admiring its lost legacy.

Roshan Lal kept pedalling, did not slow down.

Near the bus stand, diesel fumes hung low in the air. A bus coughed itself awake. Vendors arranged steel kettles on stoves. The smell of boiling tea mixed with the sharper scent of raw onions being sliced.

He pedalled steadily, his knees moving in the same circular argument they had rehearsed for decades.

A little ahead, the pesticide shop had a new board, brighter than the peeling wall behind it. “High Yield Solutions” it announced in English. Inside, sacks lay unopened.

At the mandi, the yard was half full. The heaps of grain looked smaller this year. Jute sacks were stacked with more space between them.

Harbans Singh was already there, adjusting his turban in a small mirror hung on a nail.

“Aaj kal vyapar vich jaan hi nahi rahi,” Harbans said to no one in particular.

A farmer standing nearby spat to the side. “Paise hi nahi bache. Diesel mehnga, bijli mehngi. Faslaan di kimat ohi di ohi.”

“Haanji,” Harbans replied, sighing theatrically. “Sarkar ne kisaan nu bas tasalli ditti ae.”

Roshan Lal opened the ledger. The pages were clean, margins firm. He took out his pen and began writing weights, rates, names.

The farmers’ voices rose and fell like background weather.

“Pehla jinna maal aunda si, hun adha vi nahi.”

“Bachche Canada nu ture jande ne. Kheti kaun karega?”

He wrote the totals in red ink.

Columns balanced. That was something.

At one point, a younger farmer leaned closer to the desk.

“Roshan Lal ji, tusi kinne saalan ton itthe ho?”

“Pachhi,” he answered without looking up.

“Bada farq pe gaya na?”

He paused only briefly before responding. “Hisaab taan ajj vi hisaab hi ae.”

The farmer smiled faintly.

Lunch came. He ate the bhindi quietly. The vegetable had more turmeric today. Outside, a tractor backfired sharply, startling a group of sparrows into flight.

In the afternoon, the heat thickened. The smell of grain warmed under the sun. Sweat gathered under his collar. He wiped his forehead once with the checked handkerchief and continued writing.

By evening, the light had softened into a dusty gold.

He closed the ledger carefully, aligning its edges before placing it on the stack.

On the way back, he rode slower. The market street was more crowded now. A butcher washed his floor with a hose; the water ran pink along the drain. A sweet shop displayed jalebis glowing under a weak bulb. Children licked orange ice lollies, their tongues stained bright.

He stopped at Gupta’s kirana.

“Adha kilo aloo,” he said.

Gupta weighed, tapping the scale lightly.

“Hor kuchh?”

“Nahi, bas.”

Gupta opened his small notebook. He licked his thumb before turning the page, careful not to smudge the pencil marks from previous weeks.

Roshan Lal adjusted the grocery bag on his handle and mounted the cycle again.

The bell rang once as he turned into his lane.

At home, Pooja had already placed the swept dust outside. Deepu’s voice carried from inside.

“Papa aa gaye!”

Kamla took the grocery bag. She checked the potatoes and nodded approvingly.

He leaned the cycle against the veranda wall.

The sky dimmed gradually. The neighbour’s television laughter spilled again into their quiet.

Inside the house, everything resumed its place.

Outside, the cycle stood where it always stood.

The Missing Thing

The tap began again.

Nothing in the sound suggested subtraction.

Roshan Lal bathed, stood before the framed photographs of Goddess Durga and the Golden Temple, wore the white shirt, the one that had softened into cream. Kamla packed lauki today.

“Shaam nu wapas aunde hoye namak le aayo. Khatam hon wala ae,” she said.

“Theek.”

Deepu rushed through his tea.
“Papa, aaj PT ae.”

“Hm.”

Pooja swept the room again. The dust gathered obediently at the threshold.

He wheeled the cycle out.

The morning smelled faintly of wet grain. A man coughed heavily from inside a neighbouring house. The old Punjabi song drifted again from someone’s radio. The cotton mill chimney stood the same, except that a small section of plaster at its base had fallen since yesterday. The crack looked wider now.

At the mandi, the arithmetic of the day unfolded. Farmers argued about rates.

“Subsidy kat ti sarkar ne.”

“Diesel mehnga ho gaya.”

Harbans shook his head, two fingers combing his moustache.
“Vyapar vich jaan hi nahi rahi.”

Roshan Lal wrote weights in blue ink. Totals in red. Columns aligned.

At one-thirty, he ate lauki quietly. The vegetable was softer than usual.

Evening arrived without announcement.

He stopped at Guptaji’s kirana.

Roshan Lal wheeled the cycle slightly to the side, near the wooden crate of onions; the same place as always.

“Gupta ji, ek packet namak,” he said.

Gupta put a packet of salt in a polyethene bag and handed it to Shayam Lala. Then he opened his small notebook, licking his thumb before turning the page.

When Roshan Lal came back out, the space beside the crate was empty.

He did not understand at first.

The crate was there.

The faded blue wall was there.

The paper wrapper from the salt packet lay near his foot.

The cycle was not.

He looked left. Then right. Then down the lane.

A scooter passed. Two boys ran laughing. A vegetable vendor argued loudly over ten rupees. The world continued.

“Gupta ji,” he said quietly, “mera cycle…?”

Gupta stepped out, peered into the lane.

“Hune te ethhe si?” he said uncertainly.

Roshan Lal looked at the faint, curved tyre mark in the dust, already disturbed by footsteps.

“Lag da koi le gaya,” someone from the next shop offered casually.

He stood there a moment longer than necessary.

The red cloth tied on the seat came to his mind. The dull bell. The bent mudguard.

A small crowd gathered.

“Report likha do Police chowki jaa ke,” said someone.

“Theek,” he said softly.

He lifted the grocery bag in one hand, the tiffin in the other.

For a second, his hands felt unfamiliar without the handlebars between them.

He began walking.

The cotton mill loomed again on the way home. The fallen plaster at its base looked larger in the slower light. Dust rose around his shoes instead of under the tyres.

He reached the Police chowki. Stood outside. Walked off.

By the time he reached his lane, sweat had gathered under his collar.

Deepu saw him first.

“Papa, cycle kithhe ae?”

He stepped inside.

“Chori ho gaya.”

Kamla paused mid-roll of the roti.

“Kithon?”

“Guptaji di dukaan ton.”

“Hai rabba…”

There was no shouting. No accusation.

“Police nu dasseya?” she asked after a moment.

He washed his hands slowly at the tap.

“Kal subah chowki jaaunga,” he said. “Aaj der ho gayi.”

Kamla nodded. She did not press.

Dinner tasted the same as any other night.

But when he lay down, his legs twitched slightly, as if still pedalling.

Outside, the veranda wall stood empty.

The space where the cycle had leaned looked larger than it should have.

And the tap would begin again in the morning.

The Complaint

The tap began again.

The sound was unchanged.

Roshan Lal woke before the bucket filled. For a brief second, he almost rose to wheel the cycle out — a muscle memory that had not yet been informed. Then the empty veranda entered his awareness.

He bathed. He stood before the framed photograph of Goddess Durga and the Golden Temple. His hands joined as always, but the prayer was shorter today.

He wore the pale blue shirt.

Kamla handed him tea in the yellowing plastic cup.

“Chowki jaaoge?” she asked.

“Haan.”

“Je mil jave ta changa ae.”

He nodded. There was no optimism in it, but no refusal either.

Instead of turning toward the mandi, he walked toward the bus stand where the police chowki stood beside a tea stall.

The chowki was painted dull sandy brown. A dusty board outside the chowki listed emergency numbers that no one memorised. Inside, a ceiling fan turned lazily, clicking once each rotation as if marking time.

The Munshi sat behind a metal desk, flipping through a thick register, his fingers faintly stained blue. Files were stacked in leaning columns. The room smelled faintly of damp paper and yesterday’s sweat.

“Haan ji?” the Munshi asked without looking up.

“Mera cycle chori ho gaya ji,” Roshan Lal said.

“Kadon?”

“Kal shaam.”

The Munshi looked up now.

“Kal? Bauji, ajj report karan aaye ho?”

“Haan… kal shaam der ho gayi si.”

The explanation sounded smaller than it had at home.

“Kitthon chori hoya?”

“Gupta kirane de bahar, mandi kol.”

The Munshi opened a thick register. The pages were ruled with blue lines, names written in different inks, different handwritings.

“Rang?”

“Pehla kaali si… hun phikka ho gaya.”

“Company?”

He paused. He had never needed to know.

“Hero.”

“Lock si?”

“Nahi.”

The Munshi’s pen paused for half a second. Not in judgment. In routine.

“Koi khas nishaani?”

“Seat te laal kapda baneya hoya si. Pichhla mudguard murreya hoya.”

The Munshi wrote it down.

“Kal hi kyun nahi aaye? Taza case hunda ta chance hunda.”

Roshan Lal remained quiet for a moment.

“Laggya si shayad wapas rakh jaan,” he said finally.

The Munshi leaned back in his chair.

“Complaint darj ho gayi ae. Phone number likh ditta?”

“Haan.”

“Mil gaya ta dassange.”

He turned the register around.

“Sign karo.”

Roshan Lal bent slightly, reading his name written in someone else’s hand. He signed carefully, the letters straight and even.

He wanted to ask something more definite.

“Miln da chance…?” he began.

The Munshi shrugged.

“Vekho bauji, hafte vich 8-10 cycle chori ho jande ne. Har ek labhna mushkil hunda. Koshish karde haan.”

That was the end of it.

Outside, a bus engine coughed loudly. The tea stall vendor poured chai from a height, steam rising in a white ribbon. Someone laughed sharply at something unrelated.

The world was not waiting for his recovery.

He stood outside the chowki gate for a moment longer than necessary.

The complaint existed now, its ink pressed into paper.

It did not restore weight to the empty veranda.

He adjusted the strap of his tiffin and began walking toward the mandi.

By the time he reached Harbans Singh’s shop, he was fifteen minutes late.

“Ki hoya?” Harbans asked casually.

“Chowki gaya si.”

“Kis layi?”

“Cycle chori ho gaya.”

Harbans clicked his tongue. “Mada hi haal ae. Vyapar ghat gaya, choriyan vadh gayian.”

Roshan Lal nodded and opened the ledger.

His handwriting did not tremble.

But when he left that evening, the walk home felt longer than yesterday.

And the veranda wall waited again.

Weeks of Walking

The first week felt temporary.

Each morning when the tap struck the bucket, Roshan Lal rose with the faint thought that perhaps a message might have come. There was no telephone at home. Instead, when he reached the mandi, he would glance, just once, toward Harbans Singh’s desk.

He had written Harbans’ shop number in the police register. If the cycle were found, the message would come there.

Harbans never mentioned it.

The road to the mandi, which had once passed beneath him in measured circles, unfolded differently under his feet. Small inclines he had never noticed now tugged at his calves. The stretch near the cotton mill seemed longer than it had any right to be.

He began noticing sounds that pedalling had drowned.

The scrape of a broom against shopfront cement.

The cough of an old man sitting outside a shuttered tailoring shop.

The clink of tea glasses being stacked.

The smell of frying pakoras at the bus stand hung heavier when one walked through it. Diesel fumes settled lower.

At first, he walked with mild irritation.

By the second week, the irritation thinned.

The police did not call.

Kamla stopped asking.

“Mil gayi?” she had asked the first three evenings.

“Na.”

After that, she did not ask again.

At the mandi, someone mentioned another theft.

“Kal mere saale di vi cycle chukki gayi,” a farmer said.

“Hun taan roz di gal ho gayi,” another replied.

Roshan Lal wrote the weights down without looking up.

He began leaving ten minutes earlier in the morning. Not out of urgency, but because walking required it.

By the third week, his legs had adjusted.

The cotton mill chimney no longer looked merely abandoned; he began to see grass growing through cracks in the courtyard. Someone had hung a faded bedsheet on the side wall to dry. A family must have moved into one of the unused rooms.

He had never seen that before.

Near the bus stand, a migrant labourer group had built a small row of jhuggis beside the drain; tin sheets weighed down by bricks, tarpaulin patched with rope. He had cycled past that space countless times. On foot, he could see the small details: aluminium plates stacked neatly, a plastic bucket turned upside down to serve as a stool, a pair of children’s slippers left outside one of the shacks.

The town did not look poorer.

It looked closer.

At home, his evenings changed slightly.

He arrived more tired. He sat down before washing his hands once, something he had never done before. Kamla noticed but did not comment.

Deepu began offering small observations.

“Papa, tusi hun roz paidal jaande ho?”

“Haan.”

“Thak jande ho?”

“Thoda.”

There was no complaint in the answer.

By the fourth week, walking no longer felt like punishment.

It felt like habit.

The empty space in the veranda had become ordinary. Kamla had placed an old aluminium bucket there. The wall did not look incomplete anymore.

One evening, while returning from the mandi, he took a slightly different route. Not deliberately; just because a broken-down tractor-trailer had blocked the main road.

The side lane was narrower. The houses smaller. Open drains ran along the edges. The smell shifted from spices and diesel to stagnant drains and rotting garbage.

He adjusted the strap of his tiffin and walked on.

Ahead of him, a cycle passed.

He noticed it first by the sound.

The bell rang with a dull, tired note.

His steps slowed.

The rear mudguard of the cycle was slightly bent.

A red cloth was tied on the seat.

He did not stop immediately.

He watched the back of the rider.

The man was thin. Bare-backed except for a vest that had darkened with sweat. A plastic bag hung from the handle. He pedalled quickly, almost urgently.

Roshan Lal’s grip tightened around the tiffin strap.

He followed.

Not fast. Not calling out. Just walking swiftly in the same direction.

The lane narrowed further. The cycle turned left, toward the cluster of jhuggis near the drain.

Roshan Lal’s steps slowed again.

The labourer dismounted outside one of the tin-sheet shacks. He leaned the cycle against the wall carefully, almost protectively.

Through the gap in the tattered curtain, a dim bulb glowed inside.

The man entered.

Roshan Lal stood at a distance.

He could see through the tear in the curtain; not fully, but enough.

Inside, a woman sat propped against the wall. Her frame looked smaller than the space she occupied. Her dupatta covered her head loosely. Her hand rested on her stomach.

The man squatted beside her.

He opened the plastic bag, took out a steel bowl.

He blew lightly on a spoonful of dal before lifting it toward her mouth.

His hands rough, cracked at the knuckles. Her eyes sunken. Skin almost pale.

The cycle stood outside, leaning unevenly.

It did not look like Roshan Lal’s cycle anymore.

It looked necessary.

He stood there longer than he should have.

He could walk forward.

He could call out.

Shout at the thief.

Instead, he adjusted the strap of his tiffin.

He looked once more at the red cloth tied to the seat.

Then he turned.

The walk home felt neither longer nor shorter.

Just steady.

Final Movement

A few days later, Harbans looked up from behind the newspaper, absentmindedly combing his moustache with two fingers. “Chowki ton koi khabar nahi aayi,” he said casually. “Lagda case thanda ho gaya.”

Roshan Lal nodded.

He did not ask again.

Walking had settled into him now. His steps found their own pace. The stretch near the cotton mill no longer felt longer than it should; it simply existed. Grass had grown thicker through the cracks in the courtyard. Someone had tied a rope between two pillars and hung washed clothes there.

That evening, he passed the narrower lane again.

Smoke rose thinly from the small stove outside the jhuggis. The cycle leaned against the tin-sheet wall, its front tyre slightly softer now.

He did not slow.

Opposite the bus stand, a new banner hung between two electric poles near the stationery shop.

“Admissions Open – IELTS Coaching. Go to Canada/UK/Australia/New Zealand. Limited Seats.”

The letters were bold, red on white cloth.

A group of boys stood near it, laughing loudly, nudging each other.
One of them held a sheaf of photocopied forms.

Outside the shuttered shop, a faded board still read:

“B.A., M.A. Forms Available Here.”

For a brief second, he thought of the framed certificate lying in the trunk under Pooja’s shawls. The glass had cracked slightly at one corner last winter. He had meant to fix it.

He adjusted the strap of his tiffin and continued walking.

The road felt the same.

At home, the aluminium bucket stood in the veranda where the cycle once rested. Kamla was kneading dough, her hands moving steadily.

“Aaj time naal aa gye,” she said.

“Haan.”

Deepu sat cross-legged with his maths notebook open, pencil pressed too hard against the page.

“Papa, mere kolon nahi hunda,” he muttered, frustration tightening his voice.

Roshan Lal sat down beside him.

“Dikha.”

He looked at the uneven division.

Deepu sighed. “Mainu samajh nahi aa reha.”

Roshan Lal drew the lines slowly, patiently, unhurried.

“Har kise kolon sab kujh nahi hunda,” he said quietly. “Jinna hunda ae, oh theek ae.”

Deepu looked up, unsure if it was consolation or instruction.

In the corner, Pooja’s foot slowed on the pedal, the machine faltering for a brief second before finding its steady rhythm again. The thread ran cleanly through the cloth.

“Chal, fir ton karde haan.”

They worked through it step by step.

Kamla poured tea into the same yellowing plastic cups.

The house sounded as it always had: the soft clink of steel plates, the low hum of the machine, Deepu reciting numbers under his breath.

Outside, somewhere beyond the lane, a cycle bell rang faintly.

It did not call to him.

The tap began again the next morning.

Water struck the plastic bucket in its thin, steady rhythm.

Roshan Lal rose before it filled.

He folded the bedding carefully, stood before the photographs of Goddess Durga and the Golden Temple, joined his hands briefly, and stepped into the veranda.

The aluminium bucket caught the morning light.

He adjusted the strap of his tiffin and stepped out into the lane.

The day waited.