Disclaimer: Vox Populi, IIT Kanpur, is the exclusive owner of the information on this website. No part of this content may be duplicated, paraphrased, or interpreted in any other way without written consent from Vox Populi. If you want to reproduce any of the content on this page, please contact our chief editors directly or reach out to us by email at voxpopuli@iitk.ac.in.
In the 48th and final edition of As We Leave 2024, we turn the spotlight on the journey of an unlikely candidate—one that’s defined by the thrill of the ride and the miles covered. This time, it’s not a person but a cycle, that has lived through countless stories and endless campus explorations. From late-night sprints to quiet rides along empty roads, this humble companion reflects on its time at IITK with a sense of fulfilment.
Disclaimer:- The views presented below are the author’s own and are not in any manner representative of the views of Vox Populi as a body or IIT Kanpur in general. This is an informal account of the author’s experiences at IIT-K.
As I barely hold myself upright with the help of my stand, reminiscing the past four years on this campus, I realize it’s been a hell of a ‘ride’. From scorching heat to spine-chilling nights, I’ve seen it all. From traversing the unexplored campus corners to staring into the nothingness of the academic area, I’ve done it all. So have a seat, tighten your helmets, and pedal through my journey, where I become something more than just a metallic frame.
I remember my first day on campus, standing with my friends on a basketball court in front of what seemed to be a humongous red building, showcased for those glittery-eyed freshers to choose us. Anyways, it wasn’t long before I was chosen by one such freshman, full of hope and naivety, eager to spend the next four years together. If only I hadn’t been wearing my rose-colored glasses back then.
The initial days were nothing short of a honeymoon phase. Early morning rides to class, leisurely spins around the kargil chowk, and occasional weekend excursions. It was bliss, and I reveled in the newfound freedom, my tires gliding smoothly over every path. I got to relax in the parking shed after every tiring day, assured of my safety as my tires were locked to the rods on the wall. My new friends and I, all happy and shiny, shared tales of our exciting rides and laughed at the minor bumps along the way. Gossiping about someone’s flat tires and showing off our latest six digit tattoos was a regular routine. But as they say, good things don’t last long.
The initial enthu of protecting me was gone. And before I knew it, the parking shed was replaced by the open sky. There were also times when I felt utterly alone. One day, amidst the chaos of endsems, I got lost. My already panicked fresher had hurriedly parked me outside the library, forgetting to lock me in the rush to cram for an upcoming test. I knew my safety was compromised. To add insult to injury, I was even pushed to the ground. There I was, lying in the dirt, waiting for him.
The sun dawned, and I was still there, my frame aching from the rough treatment. As hours passed, I started feeling sleepy, abandoned, and resigned to my fate. Just when I thought I’d be left to rust, someone finally picked me up. But as I was regaining my poise, realization hit me—it wasn’t my naive fresher!
I was reluctantly taken to an unfamiliar location. The majority of my new companions were old, worn out cycles. They were lifeless, probably because of the cruel acts of weather and road. I longed for the carefree days of my past. Now, I was accessorized with a torn lock, a sad testament to my condition. My once vibrant coat had lost its luster in a matter of days.
But knowing that this is what I was now, I started getting accustomed to this new normal. My new owner was no fresh-faced novice but a weary soul, worn down by the grind of existence. He lacked the zest to ride with purpose. The daily trudge from the gate to the classroom was so dreary that I found myself feeling sorry for him rather than for my own state.
Days passed, and the hope of ever returning to my previous owner faded away. My frame was slowly being eaten by rust. I had accepted this new lifestyle. Months, maybe even years, went by. One day, I found myself on a new road. I thought my owner had finally found some zeal for adventure. Little did I know, this road was a one-way ticket to a second-hand cycle sale.
As I sat among other forgotten pieces, potential buyers wandered by, scrutinizing us with varying degrees of interest. Finally, a fresher approached. The gleam in his eye and the excitement in his step, I knew it all too well. He bought me, and for a moment, I thought I might feel that old thrill. But the newness was gone, and I couldn’t muster the same outlook for life.
Gone were the days of eager anticipation and joyrides. Now, every pedal felt like a reminder of my faded glory. The fresher, brimming with enthusiasm, tried to breathe new life into me. But all his efforts turned futile. The damaged roads on the way to the academic area, flanked by trees on both sides, occasionally flooding in the rainy season, all these did give me deja vu, but not enough to give me the love for life that I once had.
We, as cycles, are meant to serve some purpose, a purpose I had failed miserably at. The ‘chain’ of events had me freewheeling through life, and inevitably, my owner got fed up with me. I was abandoned near the Hall 12 gate, left to withstand the harsh weather until a guard took me and parked me near one of those cycle shops. The place where I once stopped for checkups had now become my home.
So here I am, a rusting relic, a monument to faded glory and forgotten rides. It’s ironic, really. I once dreamed of endless roads and thrilling adventures, and now I’m just a pile of scrap, a cautionary tale for shiny new bikes with dreams of their own.
But hey, if there’s a lesson in all this, it’s that life keeps pedaling forward, whether you’re shiny and new or a bit rusty around the edges. Though my frame is weathered and my paint chipped, the memories of my journey remain vivid. For every cycle out there, take heed: cherish every pedal, every bump, and every scrape, because the journey, no matter how bumpy, is what defines us. Keep your spokes crossed and gears in motion. Each dent and scratch tells a story of resilience and adventure, of moments spent racing the wind or carrying dreams under the starry sky.
As We Leave, I realize that it’s not about the shiny exterior but the enduring spirit within. Embrace the challenges, celebrate your small victories. And let’s be honest—without us, these nerdy brains would’ve had a tough time hoofing it to the gate for those metro rides to Z square!
Yours Truly,
Bichael
Written by: Harsh Ashok Kumar, Kumar Shubham, Sanchit Arora
Edited by: Mayur Agrawal, Sruthi Subramanian
Design Credits: Sanyam Shivhare
