Yama Gandam vs Lithium Battery

Four years ago, when I turned sixty, my eighty-seven-year-old uncle gifted me a bicycle.  At eighty-seven, he believed in movement.  At sixty, I believed in brakes.

The bicycle was meant for my one-kilometre commute to the lake where I jog every morning. It worked beautifully, except for one small geographical complication: a dramatic downhill slope.  On that stretch, the cycle would gather such speed that I would grip both brakes with the sincerity of a devotee ringing the final temple bell. The brakes required tightening every second day. If I missed the ritual, I would begin calculating exit strategies, preferably ones that did not involve orthopaedic consultation.

Eventually, maintaining brake discipline became more demanding than jogging. The bicycle retired.

I had already sold my motorbike after a friend’s overflowing wisdom that men above sixty should give up two-wheelers,  advice delivered immediately after two acquaintances had accidents. Wisdom, I have noticed, is most persuasive when it involves someone else’s vehicle.Still, I missed the convenience.

An electric low budget bike seemed ideal. No licence. No registration. No helmet lectures. No moral commentary.  My brother, the officially recognised Technical Authority of our household, test-rode several electric bikes and sent me photographs. They looked powerful enough to make me feel like Narain Karthikeyan staging a dramatic comeback.

They also cost more than a couple of lakhs, an amount my brother was quite prepared to spend, since he was keen on gifting me something I truly wanted.  Since my daily ambition was merely two kilometres and back, not the Buddh International Circuit, I declined.

At home, we follow an unwritten fiscal constitution: any expense above ₹25,000 must be declared before execution. So when I cautiously shortlisted a modest electric scooter costing about ₹45,000, consultations were held. Faces were studied. Approval was granted.  I booked it.

The booking survived exactly forty-eight hours.  A senior walkmate informed me that he had “heard” electric scooters were unsafe. In retirement circles, “I have heard” carries the authority of a Supreme Court judgment. I cancelled it.

Dogs, Metro and Destiny

A month later, a teaching assignment required metro travel. The station is a ten-minute walk from home.  During the day, the street dogs are secular and tolerant. After sunset, they become investigative agencies. My white beard appears to increase their suspicion.  Walking confidently through them works, but I would rather not test canine psychology every evening.

Taking my car to the metro was worse. No parking. Keys handed to vendors. Hygiene anxiety.

One late evening, while the household slept and courage briefly visited me, I researched again and booked an electric scooter online for a little over Rs.50,000/-.  The next morning, I informed my mother.  She usually does not object, provided my brother has been consulted.  But this time she had celestial concerns.  “Yesterday was Yama Gandam,” she said.  I do not subscribe to these calculations. But I deeply subscribe to my mother’s peace of mind. Unfortunately, booking portals do not display planetary warnings.

Delivery was scheduled for February 5th.

“That day is not auspicious.”  Miraculously, I rescheduled it to the 6th. Cosmic alignment restored. Diplomacy successful.  I relaxed too soon.

When Delhi Overrides Destiny

On January 30th,  which was neither the 5th nor the 6th Feb and atleast a week earlier than scheduled, I received a call mid-training session.  “Sir, share location. Delivery today.”  I explained the rescheduling.  “Not possible. Goods already from Delhi”, he responded.  Delhi, apparently, outranks the planets.  I shared the location.  

Within minutes, my mother called. “Today also not good.”. Helplessness is not dignified, especially mid-session. I requested her to accept the delivery.

When I returned home, the scooter stood there, gleaming and unaware of cosmic controversy. I later learned my mother had explained to the delivery driver about the inauspicious timing. The poor man had no authority over either logistics or Lord Yama.

The next instruction was non-negotiable:

Temple.

The Lemon Test

At the temple, the priest performed full honours: vibhuti, kumkum, garland, lemons placed reverentially before the wheels.  A petrol scooter next to mine crushed its lemons confidently and moved ahead like a spiritually assured overachiever.  My electric scooter refused to move.  It nudged the lemons sideways and froze.

Traffic slowed. Onlookers gathered. The priest looked anxious. I looked examined.  I called the seller, who spoke only Hindi. I can understand Hindi. Responding requires rehearsal and inner translation. Standing on a noisy main road with honking traffic while holding a video call to my ear was not the ideal language-learning environment.  I disconnected.

A kind stranger, an electric scooter owner, stepped forward. He opened the battery compartment, switched it off and on, inserted the key.  The scooter came alive.  “Whenever problem,” he declared proudly, “switch off and on.”  Years of computer usage had prepared me for this philosophy.

The lemons, now misaligned, were finally crushed with mild acrobatics. The priest visibly relaxed. So did the crowd, who had gathered to witness whether astrology or electricity would prevail.

The Real Culprit

The next day, the vendor guided me to unscrew panels and inspect red wires,  using my cutting plier as an improvised spanner. Nothing changed.

Eventually, I discovered the real issue.  The key had both a physical and an electronic lock. The anti-theft mode had been accidentally activated. The scooter was not stubborn. It was simply secure.  I informed the vendor of my discovery, a small triumph of Bangalore troubleshooting over remote tele-support.

Conclusion

The scooter is now two weeks old and performing beautifully.  It takes me to the metro. It waits patiently. It brings me home without barking, without argument, without astrological consultation.

More than relief about the scooter working, I felt relief for my mother. Had it failed permanently that day, every inauspicious calculation would have been permanently validated.

At this stage of life, I have realised something.  Technology runs on lithium batteries.  Families run on belief.

And in Bangalore, where tradition and technology share the same street,  it is not about proving which one is right.  It is about ensuring that neither your scooter nor your mother loses faith at the same time.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.