The afternoon sun filtered softly through the window, casting a warm, golden glow across the room and catching the silver highlights of Pihu’s hair. A gentle smile touched her lips, deepening the faint, new wrinkles on her face—each one a subtle cartography of a life richly lived. Outside, a young woman in the neighborhood was struggling to balance on a bicycle, her laughter and nervous squeals drifting up through the quiet air. Watching her wobble, pedal, and try again, a wave of tender nostalgia washed over Pihu. The sight instantly broke the barriers of time, carrying her mind across decades and oceans. It took her right back to Japan, back when she and her husband, Palash, shared just one car.
It worked out fine at first—Palash drove to work, and Pihu walked. But before long, she started making friends, wanted to go to Doho Park to swim, and found that lugging heavy grocery bags home on foot was becoming a painful chore. Seeing this, Palash suggested she learn how to ride a bicycle! Having never ridden one in her life, Pihu thought she was well past the age of learning. But Palash convinced her and went out to buy her a women’s bicycle.
Pihu looked at her husband with wide eyes. “Oh, meyeder bujhi alada cycle paowa jaye?” (“Oh, do you really get separate bicycles for women?”)
Palash smiled with a wide grin. “Ha.” (“Yes.”)
Pihu asked, “Amake shekhabe ke?” (“Who’s going to teach me?”)
Palash replied, “Kano? Ami, of course. Who else!” (“Why? Me, of course. Who else?”)
It was then Pihu learned that most countries have separate bicycle designs for men and women. The reason? So that women can ride elegantly and worry-free, even while wearing a frock, a skirt, or perhaps even a sari.
Their lessons began in the spring. They lived in a three-story government housing complex for the families of employees working at the National Labs. At the time, Palash was a research scientist in the field of Solar Cell Research—and notably, the first foreigner ever hired by a National Lab in Japan. Behind their building was a beautiful path lined with fragrant cherry blossoms, flanked by gardens and parks. That beautiful path became their training ground, and the scene was absolutely hilarious! There Pihu was, saddled nervously on her spanking-new bicycle, squealing with fear, while Palash ran behind her, physically pushing the bike.
“Aste! Aste! Pore jabo!” (“Slow down! Slow down! I’ll fall!”) Pihu would cry out.
They were quite the sight. Their Japanese neighbors and passing pedestrians couldn’t conceal their giggles. They had definitely never seen a spectacle quite like them before!
After the first week of training, Palash would give her a strong starting push and then let her bravely pedal the rest of the way to the finish line on her own. Slowly but surely, Pihu mastered the art of balance. When she could finally ride independently, she was overjoyed, and Palash was so proud of her. Pihu felt unstoppable—now she could do everything she wanted faster, more comfortably, and efficiently.
A few days later, after Palash left for work, Pihu decided to test her newly acquired skill and go shopping on her own for the first time. Wearing a pretty blue summer dress, she rode up the hilly street feeling confident, free, and completely on top of the world.
Suddenly, as she reached a crossing, there was a loud screech! A car came to an abrupt halt, and the driver behind the wheel looked utterly incredulous and furious. In her excitement, Pihu had crossed without looking both ways. She stopped, offered a quick, embarrassed “sorry,” and pedaled away from the angry driver as fast as her legs could carry her. Her confident bubble had deflated completely, and she felt so stupid. Still, she made it to the store. She filled the pretty basket on her handlebars with vegetables, fruits, and other goodies. The ride back home down the hill was a much more mindful one. She made sure to stop and look both ways at the crossing before coasting down the gentle slope. Her composure returned, and she was once again feeling light and cheery.
All was well—until the bicycle suddenly began to gain speed. For the life of her, Pihu couldn’t figure out the brakes! She was sure she had learned how to slow down and stop gently, so why was her mind a total blank now? Panic set in. They flew! The wind whipped across her face as the bicycle hurtled down the hill, while she helplessly watched the black asphalt blur beneath her. Before she knew it, a steel streetlamp loomed larger and larger ahead.
Crash!
Suddenly, Pihu was sprawled on the ground next to her bicycle right in front of the lamp post. Her head throbbed, and she was literally seeing stars. As she came to her senses, she realized her dress was hitched up, and the hot summer afternoon sun was beating down on her bare head and hands. Instinct immediately took over: she looked left, she looked right, and she searched all around her. Not a single soul or car was on the street. Thank goodness!
As gracefully as her aching body would allow, Pihu slowly stood up. She picked up her bicycle and gathered a few fruits that had rolled out of their bag. Thankfully, they weren’t squished, and the rest of the groceries were completely intact. She loaded everything back into the basket, climbed back onto the seat, and gingerly pedaled the remaining short distance to their apartment building. She carried the groceries upstairs and sat down for a good while with an ice pack on her head, reflecting on the day’s wild adventure.
But guess what? After that day—and especially after their son was born and she had to take him everywhere with her—Pihu never had another accident. She rode responsibly and mindfully. She cherished the breeze in her hair and the soft, sweet cooing of her son, who was safely and gently ensconced in the front basket, while a new basket on the back carried their groceries. Pihu successfully rode up and down the hilly roads of Tsukuba with her baby. She went swimming, attended tea parties with the other wives, ran errands, or simply cruised around the parks. Whenever she remembered that dangerous crossing where she almost got hit, she would let out an embarrassed giggle. But whenever she remembered her “great fall” against the lamp post, she would laugh out loud.
Life was, and still is, good.
Once they left Japan, Pihu never rode a bicycle again. The car became her new life and her constant companion for all future adventures. They say that once you learn how to ride a bicycle or swim, you never truly forget. Who knows, maybe she will try it again someday. For now, she has almost stopped driving as well. These days, Pihu just likes to walk around. 
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A thoughtful observer of life and passionate storyteller, P.G. Aria explores the beauty, humour, and complexities of the human experience through stories, articles, and poetry. With warmth, honesty, and fresh perspectives, Aria invites readers to pause, reflect, and discover the extraordinary hidden in the ordinary.
