Bicycle repair man

"Can you get me a replacement lever please?"
"Ah sir, but you will have to buy both levers."
"OK, not a problem, how soon can you get them?"
"Thursday."
Thursday came and went and "Monday" was the next answer. We couldn't make it on Monday but today I went in there expecting to be told that the shipment had sunk in the Arabian Sea or that there had been an unexpected run on those particular levers or that the manufacturer had been abducted by aliens. Old cynic that I am, I was wrong and there were two new levers tucked away in a draw for me; mine for two hundred rupees (which I have to say, seems way over-priced).
In the meantime, Niharika cycling blissfully unaware on one brake, the back wheel suddenly seized up completely whilst we were at the local park yesterday afternoon. I told Shilpi that I thought it was divine retribution as not more than five minutes before, Nihirika had been throwing a tantrum - and her arms - at a small boy who was trying to get on her bike. If it was, I'm glad the Almighty just decided to bugger her back wheel rather than send down a lightning bolt.
In any event, by this morning the bike fixing requirement had gone up from "replace right brake lever" to "replace right brake lever and rectify seized rear wheel." I could probably have coped with replacing the lever myself, even though I was never much of a dab hand with my own bike, but I baulked at the thought of investigating where the back wheel problem was.
The shop couldn't look at it until Tuesday and suggested a bicycle repair shop down the road. I stopped there but the owner wasn't interested and told me through a mouthful of half chewed tobacco that I should go on to Old Madras Road. This was just a little too far for me and so I decided to head back towards Cambridge Layout to Sahil's Bicycle Shop.
A little Muslim man appeared from nowhere, gave the bike a cursory glance and a couple of taps with a spanner and said to me, "a hundred rupees". Fair enough, I thought, and he set to work completely dismantling the back wheel, removing the spindle and all the old ball bearings which spilled out across the pavement. Then abruptly he stopped what he was doing, left everything where it was and marched across the road to where a roadside vendor was selling sugar cane juice. He drank one himself and then returned with three more: one for me and two for his colleagues in the shop. I thought at the time that I'd probably paid for those in any event and that local customers would have haggled the hundred rupees down to sixty or less. To be honest, I find all that haggling business too much and, unless the price is really steep, usually accept what the various vendors ask for. Shortly afterwards however, another customer did come up and there was a very heated exchange over twenty rupees before the customer accepted the original price that had been asked.
Niharika's bike was fixed in about fifteen minutes and I gave the chap Rs 120. I don't mind tipping for good service even if I had been over-charged in the first place, but in any event that's the equivalent of £1.50 in pounds sterling and an English bicycle repair man wouldn't even deign to pick his nose for that, let alone get out of bed.
Pictured above, Monty Python's original bicycle repair man (but I'll settle for the Indian version).
Labels: bicycle, bicycle repair man, bike, Monty Python













