The Stepney Generation

If you’re over fifty, you probably spent part of your childhood sitting on a Stepney.

Not because it was meant to be a seat. It wasn’t. It was a spare tyre bolted behind the pillion on a Lambretta or a Bajaj Chetak. Yet, for an entire generation of Indian children, it became first class.

Dad drove. Mom sat sideways on the pillion in a sari. On the Lambretta, one of us perched on the Stepney behind her, facing the traffic and clutching the metal support with absolute faith in two people—our parents and Isaac Newton. If we were younger, especially on the Bajaj Chetak, we graduated to the front. We squeezed in between Dad and Mom, perched over that infamous hard plastic inverted U-shaped handle above the fuel tank. Whoever designed it clearly wasn’t thinking about six-year-old anatomy. I sometimes joke that India’s fertility rate might have been a little higher had Bajaj shown more compassion. Miraculously, our generation survived with both dignity and descendants intact.

Looking back, I sometimes think those scooters were preparing us for adulthood. Dad steered. We held on. That became our operating manual for the next forty years. We became a generation that held on—to jobs we didn’t particularly enjoy, bosses we didn’t admire, traditions we never fully understood and systems we criticised in private but defended in public. We adjusted because adjustment was considered a virtue. Endurance became a badge of honour. Questioning, on the other hand, was often mistaken for arrogance. If you asked one question too many, someone would eventually dismiss you with, “Bahut hoshiyaar ban rahe ho?” So, over time, many of us stopped asking.

Even illness came with its own rituals. A cough meant Joshina or Joshanda—that unforgettable concoction which tasted as though somebody had boiled tree bark, neem leaves and despair in the same vessel. Stomach cramps invited ajwain boiled in water. Cuts were rewarded with Mercurochrome that painted your knees bright red, while Vicks on the chest, a muffler around the neck and an embargo on ice cream completed the treatment. We never demanded scientific evidence or second opinions. We swallowed, winced and carried on. Looking back, I sometimes think we weren’t merely being treated. We were being trained.

Today’s children are different. They Google symptoms before seeing the doctor. They question teachers, negotiate with parents, challenge managers and happily walk away from jobs that don’t align with their values. They can be impatient, loud and occasionally exhausting. But they are rarely intimidated. Sometimes I envy them. Sometimes I envy us.

Perhaps they can afford to live like that because people like us spent our lives absorbing the shocks. We worried about EMIs, promotions, children’s education and family responsibilities so they could worry about purpose, principles and mental well-being. Maybe that is how progress actually works. One generation learns to adjust. The next generation asks why.

Which brings me back to the Stepney.

I sometimes think we weren’t merely children who sat on it.

We became the Stepney.

Reliable. Dependable. Always carrying the extra load. Never steering. Quietly waiting in the background until life had a puncture.

Perhaps that’s why our generation often struggles to understand today’s youngsters.

They don’t want to hang on.

They don’t want to be the Stepney.

They want the handlebar.

And perhaps that’s exactly how it should be.