"Uncle Raheem’s Bicycle"

Puran Nagar wasn’t a place you'd find in newspapers or flashy advertisements. It wasn’t on any tourist map either. But hidden in its dusty lanes and old houses was a little shop — a place where not only bicycles were fixed, but hearts too. It belonged to Uncle Raheem, the bicycle mechanic.

Under the shade of an old neem tree, his workshop stood humbly. A tin roof, two wooden benches, a rickety cabinet full of old tools and spare parts — nothing fancy, but everything useful. Uncle Raheem, with his white beard, slightly bent back, and traditional skullcap, wore a faded kurta and always had a gentle smile. There was a spark in his eyes, the kind that only comes from years of honest work and a heart full of peace.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew him. Children called him “Dada”, the youth sought his advice, and the elders saw him as a friend. Each person had some story connected to him — their first bicycle, a childhood accident, a tearful heartbreak, or a joyful celebration. Somehow, Uncle Raheem was always part of their memories.

He had started his work in 1975, with the support of his late wife, Amina Begum. She had saved money bit by bit, helping him buy his first repair cart. In the beginning, he sat on the roadside, fixing tires and brakes. Over time, his honesty won people’s trust, and his cart turned into a proper little workshop.

But time, as always, changed everything. New shops opened — shiny showrooms with glass windows, air conditioning, imported bikes, and flashy young mechanics who spoke in English and used phones more than tools. People slowly drifted away. Uncle Raheem’s shop became quieter, yet he never complained. Every morning he would unlock his workshop and say to whoever passed by:

“Whether it’s a bicycle chain or the chain of life, fix it before it breaks too far.”

He had a son, Irfan, who moved to the city years ago. Irfan found his father’s work embarrassing and worked in a call center instead. He rarely called and only reached out when he needed money. Raheem forgave him, but a quiet sadness often lingered behind his eyes.

One day, some young adults — Faizan, Raju, and Maira — returned to the neighborhood. They had grown up learning to ride bicycles from Uncle Raheem. Now, Faizan was an IT engineer, and Maira worked in community development. Together, they launched a small project called “#ChachaKiCycle” (Uncle’s Bicycle). Every Sunday, they would come to his shop, help repair bikes, teach kids to ride, and sit with Uncle Raheem to hear his stories.

His words began to travel far. In one video, he said:

“Everything in life can be replaced — but honesty, my child, has no spare part.”

The clip went viral, watched by over 500,000 people. Local newspapers wrote about him. The city mayor visited and awarded him the title of “Living Heritage.” Uncle Raheem only smiled and said:

“I only know how to fix punctures, beta. Leave these mobile phones and awards for yourselves.”

One quiet evening, he pulled out an old letter from his wife’s diary. Amina had written:

“Raheem, as long as your hands keep working, people’s prayers will follow you. Every bicycle you fix goes further than you do, but you go deeper into people’s lives.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks. That night, he drank a simple cup of tea and sat quietly in his shop, staring at the drawings children had made for him, still pinned to the wooden wall.

The next morning, when Faizan and Maira came, they found him still sitting there — peaceful, but still. Amma Jannat, the elderly woman who brought him lunch every day, let out a loud cry:

“Chacha is gone…”

The entire neighborhood mourned. Shops remained shut. Every bicycle in Puran Nagar had a small flag that day, reading:

“The chain of life never broke — Uncle Raheem.”

His shop still stands, now turned into a small community center by Faizan and Maira. Every weekend, children come to learn how to ride, how to fix things, and more importantly — how to live with honesty and kindness. In the corner of the shop, Uncle Raheem’s chair remains — empty, but glowing with the light of memories.