I’m a Hercules bike. I was built at a factory in Jurong before being shipped to a tiny bicycle store in the city. In that shop, I was the center of attention. None of the other bikes had my slick design, smart lighting, or Dunlop tyres. The merchant was so pleased with me that he constantly polished me. One day, a dad entered the business with his teen-aged son.

The youngster refused to let go of me the moment he saw me. My father had no choice except to purchase me. I had thought that the youngster would look after me, but I was sorely disappointed. Not only did the dude treat me brutally, but he also loaned me to his sister.

She was still learning to ride a bike, so she fell a lot, scratching off my costly paint. The child, overjoyed to have his bicycle, rode me for kilometers and kilometers, frequently through muddy trails. He never bothered to wash me, and my lovely body gradually got caked with filth. I was also left out in the rain by the boy. Rust soon began to accumulate all over me. My shopkeeper would be astounded if he saw me now.

I’m filthy and rusted. I wish I hadn’t been so lovely in the past. The boy would not have seen me then, and I may have found a nicer owner. Right now, I’m standing despondently outside the boy’s house, wondering what the future holds for me.