Yesterday someone stole my bike. In the morning, like usual, I rode to work, listening to music, taking in some warm morning sun, dodging cow shit mines, cars, bikes, and camels, on my morning route that cuts through the village, over the train tracks and then parallel to them. I parked my bike, locked it, and went upstairs to start my day. Normal, it’s the same day I’ve been living since September. At our office, the parking deck is on the ground floor of the building, bicycles and motorbikes perched in-between concrete support columns, making it impossible to keep watch out the window (not that I would). Just above the back wheel, where bikes in the West have a rear brake and brakepad, sits a single handcuff serving as the lock, jamming the back wheel before it is perched onto the kickstand that really is a stand; the bike is locked to itself. It is a joke of a lock, the handcuff from a police officer Halloween costume. Not more than 20 feet long, the driveway leads to a busy street, making this the easiest of thefts – the bike parked in a sheltered place, the lock a formality but not a deterrent, no guard, no gate, and a waiting, bustling street to disappear into. Quick cash.

When I first got the bike everyone told me that I should get a second lock. In the U.S. I rarely lock my bike on the street, bringing it inside whenever possible, well aware that in NYC it is just dumb to think that a lock will deter theft. Here, I didn’t get another lock, thinking I was invincible, or that no one else uses a second lock why should I. I don’t really know why, but I didn’t. “I will be back in 20 minutes, I am just going to the post office,” I told my co workers. At the bottom of the stairs, jingling the key in my right hand, I turned the corner and didn’t see it. Maybe someone moved it. The corner, the nook where a bike can’t fit, the street, the neighboring balconies, pan parlors – I looked everywhere. My bike was gone. My bike is gone and it ain’t coming back.

What a shitty feeling. Maybe there should have been another seven locks, maybe I should have had an alarm system on it, it is a moot point. I was robbed and that feeling sucks. It was probably someone from the neighborhood, someone who watches me come and go and finally worked up the gall the make his move. Loosing my bike and the money sucks, but the world goes on – the feeling of being robbed and totally helpless to do anything about it is the worst part. I just hope he needs the money and uses it for something good.

With my tail between my legs, I sulked upstairs in search of a: “Sorry, that stinks.” Instead,“You should have had another lock,” was the response from everyone. Great. Thanks a lot. That is really sweet. Your right, getting my bike stolen was my fault. I apologize. They mean well but it wasn’t what I was looking for. When the director returned he went crazy, ranting about how that person is a bad man, he must be caught, my cycle will be replaced in one or two or three or four days, and that man is a thief and a bad man. He is such a sweet man and is extra careful when dealing with me, but this enthusiasm was more than I wanted to deal with right then. I just wanted for someone to say, “Sorry man, that sucks,” and then get on with it, take a few days to think about the best next move and let is pass with time. More ranting, I must call the police, file a report. In the middle of his best-intentioned tirade, I looked outside and chuckled – good luck finding my bike, the same bike that every other person in Ahmedabad rides. That’s not like looking for a needle in a haystack, it is like looking for a specific needle in a needle factory.

I walked home.