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Whispers and Words #3 | The Trailing Traffic

***
The meter is stuck.
I'm traveling miles
Still not moving ahead.

The brakes don't work.
A speed breaker sends me flying
Into a vault of old memories.

I had come of age.
So I had to give up
My fear of the road.

Travelling all the roads together,
The thrill of the ride
Eventually replaced the fear.

Then, without noticing,
The license plate wore out and
The gentle ride turned bumpy.

The rearview mirrors droop low now,
No longer reflecting her face,
Just the trailing traffic.

***

This poem is dedicated to the scooty I grew up with. Like everything else in life, it was once new and bursting with energy. Its condition has worsened now, not very different from human relationships.


Have you had a similar experience?
Leave your thoughts in the comments below.



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  1. Kashish rizwi8:16 PM, June 22, 2025

    I have no words to describe how this poetry touched my heart... it instantly reminded me of my Abba’s first bike – the Super Splendor. It's been over 20 years, but that bike still holds a piece of my childhood, a piece of my soul. You won’t understand the feeling unless you’ve lived it… that bike wasn’t just a vehicle, it was an emotion – a companion of our journey, our laughter, and even our little accidents.

    I still remember how I used to sit on the fuel tank while Abba took me to school. My teachers used to lovingly tease me, calling me “tanki wali beti.” I felt special. It was our little ritual — the tank, my throne, and Abba, my superhero. That bike had magic. The market rides, the bumpy shortcuts, the street-side snacks — it was more than a ride, it was a memory machine.

    One memory that makes me laugh even today — once we fell into a coal dump while riding. My little sister was just 4 years old and was sleeping in front. She woke up covered in coal, from head to toe — like a little black ghost! But surprisingly, no one got hurt. Instead, we all laughed like crazy. That bike had the power to turn even accidents into joy.

    And the most beautiful part? My Abba had written my name — *Kashish* — on the bike. Maybe because I was his favourite child... or maybe because I was just always with him. That small gesture made me feel like the princess of his world. That bike didn’t just carry us, it carried love, memories, and childhood dreams.

    Even today, when I close my eyes, I can feel the wind on my face, the smell of petrol, and the warmth of Abba’s back as I held him tight. That bike… it wasn’t just metal and wheels. It was love in motion.



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