I’ll never forget the smell of his Hero Honda bike, reminiscent of stale Yak cigarette. It evoked ancient memories of weekend visits filled with ice creams and butter chicken for dinner. I was fond of munching on traditional Nepali baara (Black Gram lentil Pancake), especially when baked with peanut butter—a treat buwa's girlfriend would cook on Saturday mornings.

It was an old model of Honda, two-toned with the colours of the lake and an overly saturated sky. The Hero Honda was quickly made rideable again; its forks were replaced, brakes repaired and the dry tyres filled with air. As a child, too young to be there legally, I would sit on the bike’s back seat, playing alone. Buwa would reach over to tuck me in, and I would catch the scent of cigarettes on his black leather jacket.

The Hero Honda bike was a recurrent topic in our sporadic conversations, particularly when I was permitted to visit buwa and during our occasional phone calls over the past few years. Buwa would update me on his progress toward our shared goal of riding bikes together.

On a motorcycle, travelling was an act of freedom. Buwa was free to match the pace of the slowest common denominator. Sometimes, I felt he enjoyed the solitude.

He’d smoke while we rode, whether a brief five-minute ride to the Bhatbhateni market or a four to five-hour journey to my grandparents’ house in Ranighat, Birgunj. With his cigarette hand hanging out, the wind whisked the ash into the crisp summer air.

He’d play old Bob Dylan songs on the Sony portable cassette player. As traffic congested the downtown region, buwa would sharpen his focus, adeptly navigating through the throng of vehicles with a calculated anticipation of other drivers’ actions. He’d sing along to each scratchy tune, elongating each word, and always turn to smile at me in the back seat.

“Sing it again, buwa!” I’d squeal, almost on cue. And he’d happily oblige, rewinding the track to start over.

In Birgunj, the chaos of urgent life caused rules to dissolve. Pedestrians weaved between gridlocked bullock carts, cyclists ignored traffic lights and drivers struggled to manoeuvre their oversized vehicles. Amid it all, buwa manoeuvred like a maverick on two wheels, expertly slipping through the urban labyrinth, balancing speed and safety.

I’d trace patterns in the fog on his black leather Hero Honda jacket, pressing my fingers against it to see how long the imprint would last before it faded from the cold or my boredom. The leather was worn, cracked and peeling. Unnoticed, I’d peel off tiny slivers and hide them, along with lollipop stems from the bank teller and candy wrappers, in the secret space between the seat and the console.

During those court-mandated visits, I could only see the best in him as a child.

Sometimes, we’d set out before noon, when the temperature was still bearable and buwa would coax me to join him for a joyride on the Hero Honda. His reserved demeanour concealed a smiling heart that was always ready for adventure.

He would pull back a tarp covering the bike and use a crusty rag to wipe off the layer of mud that had settled on everything in his driveway—his idea of tidying up.

“Do you have a real helmet?” I asked, hoping for something more protective than the rickety bucket I knew he wore. Instead, he pulled out a motocross helmet two sizes too big for my head and a pair of tinted safety glasses.

“Gloves?”

Buwa did a lap around the garage, producing various work gloves, none suitable for operating a motorcycle clutch. I didn’t bother asking for leathers. Even if he had a jacket, it would have been comically oversized on me and the summer temperature was climbing. So, ignoring my reservations, I sat on the Hero Honda dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and Hathi Chhap chappal (slippers).

After that summer, he stopped coming for his weekends with me. Aama said he had started truck driving again, his route spanning east to west, making it seem like I was out of the way. I forgave him and hoped he would show up again unannounced.

But as more summers passed, my hope dwindled and I stopped expecting anything from him. All I knew of him were the rumours between the neighbours, the insults aama would hurl when she drank too much and the fading memories of our bike rides.

A decade had passed, each year weaving its thread through the tapestry of his existence until the fabric of his lifestyle frayed and unravelled. Then, amidst the remnants of his once-vibrant days, a weathered will emerged, a testament to his legacy, quietly nestled between the yellowed leaves of a forgotten phone book in the dim corner of his apartment.

I received a phone call from a lawyer in a town I had never heard of.

A few weeks later, I found myself standing in a parking lot, handed the keys to the bike I had assumed he had gotten rid of decades ago.

I realised how the scent had remained unchanged after so long and at that moment, my mind drifted back to those days. Weekend road trips. Sony’s portal cassette player serves as a music player in the wild. My fingers peeled back the leather. Buwa by my side. Those memories were the ones I cherished and kept to myself, hidden in a place no one could reach—a lonely alley in the memory lane only I could access.

The upholstery was unkempt, tickets from years past strewn across the dashboard, frozen in time. The motorcycle’s odometer was stuck on a number I no longer remembered.

The woman at the Everest hotel where I stayed said it was acceptable to sell the bike from the premises—she had known my buwa, but I never inquired how. So, I placed a sign on the windshield that read ‘For Sale—NPR 25,900’. The familiar scent hit me as I positioned the sign between the window and the windscreen. I had barely returned to my front door when I heard a voice.

“Will you take twenty-five grand?” a man asked. He had approached from somewhere along the busy road, but I didn't stop to question it. He smoked Yak cigarettes; I could see them poking out of his shirt pocket. They were unfamiliar yet comforting.

“I will,” I replied.

He counted out twenty-five hundred-rupee notes and handed them to me with hands that trembled, aged and worn. They were what I imagined my buwa’s hands would have looked like had he still been around.

As the hum of the Hero Honda faded into the cacophony of life’s relentless march, I felt a chapter of my existence turning with the crunch of gravel under its tyres.

The currency now in my palm felt foreign, a meagre exchange for the treasure trove of recollections that I had just relinquished. In that fleeting exchange, each rupee was imbued with the taste of baara and the scent of smoky Yak cigarettes, a currency rich with the essence of buwa’s legacy.

I handed him the keys to the Hero Honda and watched as he left as silently and swiftly as he had arrived. He gave a nod, and I nodded in return.

Then, I stood there, eyes tracing his departure as he navigated the bustling city, a mirror to the lively streets of my youth aboard a motorcycle that cradled beneath its seat the woven shades of my cherished memories.