Pedaling Through Life: A Father–Son Ashtavinayak Cycling Pilgrimage by Sunil Khandbahale - HTML preview

Whispers of the

 

Wheels: A

 

Conversation Between

 

Two Cycles

 

An Epilogue to the

 

Ashtavinayak Journey

 

Night had fallen softly on Nashik.

The stars blinked like distant lamps on a dark countryside road.

In the corner of the veranda, two bicycles stood quietly, their frames glistening faintly under the golden porch light.

Mud still hugged their tires, and dried turmeric from Jejuri clung to their spokes, like medals of memory. They had no human eyes, but they could see everything that mattered.

They had no voices, but tonight… they spoke.

The Elder Speaks

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“So… we made it home.”

Her voice carried the calm weight of a pilgrim who’d seen too much, yet carried it all gracefully.

“Eight days, eight temples, eight thousand emotions. And yet, it feels like the road is still humming beneath my tires.”

Shriram’s Bicycle chuckled softly, her chain giving a cheerful click.

“You always speak like a philosopher.

Even after a thousand kilometers, you still sound like the road itself.”

On the Road, and Beyond It

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Well, the road teaches you patience.

Especially when your tire goes flat twice and your rider still believes in you.”

Shriram’s Bicycle (laughing): “Oh yes, I remember that day at Pali!

You were lying there like a tired sage, and the mechanic offered his own cycle for the holy lake ride. That was something!”

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Yes. That man reminded me, faith isn’t always found in temples.

Sometimes it’s in the hands of a stranger who trusts you without knowing your name.”

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“I watched them from afar that night … the father and son, cycling through darkness toward the lake. It wasn’t the road that guided them; it was something brighter inside.”

 

The Difference in Their Riders

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Your rider… he has fire.

There’s this sparkle in his pedaling, half curiosity, half courage.”

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“And your rider … my, he has wisdom!

Even when the road was cruel or steep, he never forced you. He simply… understood you.

Like a friend who knows when you’re tired but won’t say it aloud.”

Sunil’s Bicycle (smiling):

“That’s because he’s learned that patience is also motion. He’s teaching the boy that the strongest riders are the gentlest ones.”

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“Funny, isn’t it? They began this trip to visit gods carved in stone,

but ended up finding the divine within each other.”

Moments Remembered

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Do you remember the children from that primary school? They surrounded us, full of questions … not about Ganesha or the temples,

but about us… the cycles!”

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“How could I forget! Their laughter was louder than the morning bells.

I swear one of them tried to count my spokes!”

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Those moments made me realize… we carry more than riders; we carry curiosity, wonder, and stories that will outlive our rust.”

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“And the rain! I’ll never forget the Lonavala fog. I thought I’d drown in clouds, but instead, I floated in silence.”

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“You floated; I survived! My brakes squeaked like old prayers on that descent.”

Both cycles laughed … a metallic, tender laughter that sounded like wind chimes touched by memory.

At the Heart of the Journey

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“Tell me something, old friend, what do you think this journey was really about?”

Sunil’s Bicycle (pausing, the chain glinting under the porch light):

“It was never about the distance.

It was about the closeness.

Between father and son. Between effort and grace. Between movement and meaning.”

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“I think so too. I watched Shriram change. He began as a rider, eager to conquer kilometers. But somewhere between Moregaon and Mahad, he stopped riding on me, and started riding with me.”

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Yes. They both did.

Somewhere along the road, the ride stopped being a journey to temples,

and became a journey within.”

Reflections in Rust and Rain

A soft drizzle began outside… as if the skies couldn’t resist joining their nostalgia.

Tiny drops ran down their frames, tracing stories written in mud and memory.

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“You know, sometimes I still feel that slight ache in my tire, from that second puncture.”

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“You mean the one at Pali?”

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Yes. I like to keep it.

It reminds me that even when we stop moving, the road stays inside us.”

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“And I still carry specks of Jejuri’s turmeric. It makes me look like I’ve been kissed by the sun.”

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Maybe we both have. Maybe every road leaves its own blessing.”

Home, at Last

Inside the house, the sound of laughter echoed. Shriram’s voice, animated, retelling adventures. Sunil’s calm tone, occasionally joining with a chuckle. The aroma of hot tea drifted out the window.

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“They’re happy. That’s what matters.”

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Yes. We carried them safely.

But they carried us with something greater, faith.”

The porch light flickered.

The night deepened.

The world fell silent, except for two bicycles, side by side, their shadows merging, as if one.

The Last Whisper

Before sleep took the house, one final whisper echoed between them.

Shriram’s Bicycle:

“What happens now? No more temples, no more highways?”

Sunil’s Bicycle:

“Ah, my young friend… the pilgrimage never ends. It simply changes form.

Tomorrow, they’ll ride again … maybe to work, maybe to school …

but now, every ride will carry a piece of the divine.”

A pause.

A breeze.

A quiet shimmer of moonlight.

Sunil’s Bicycle (softly):

“Every spoke has a story.

Every pedal, a prayer.

And we, we are the keepers of both.”

And with that, both bicycles stood still … proud, peaceful, watching over their riders,

their hearts made of steel,

their souls made of road.

Through My Eyes: The

 

Divine View of a

 

Father–Son

 

Pilgrimage, As seen by

 

Lord Ganesha

 

They came to see Me.

But little did they know, I had been watching them all along.

From the first day when the father adjusted the saddle and the son fastened his helmet,

I felt the familiar spark of devotion … not from ritual, but from purpose.

A purpose born of love, courage, and the quiet wish to journey together.

The First Pedal, The Call of Faith

When they began from Nashik, their wheels shimmered under the morning sun.

The father’s breath carried the calm of wisdom; the son’s pulse danced with youth.

Every push of the pedal was a mantra … Ganapati Bappa Morya whispered not by lips, but by motion, rhythm, and trust.

I smiled from above.

You see, I do not live only in temples … I dwell in effort, in beginnings.

Whenever a heart starts a journey in faith, that very moment becomes a temple.

The Road as Teacher

As they cycled through rain, heat, and highways, I watched how the father slowed down so his son could lead. Sometimes he led, sometimes he followed. This is what the world calls parenting, but I call it the balance of creation, the rhythm of my drum.

They met strangers who offered tea, water, guidance … those were my forms too.

I appear as a mechanic who lends his own bicycle, as a villager who refuses money for tea,

as a truck driver who offers a lift on a dark night. My devotees rarely recognize Me when I’m not carved in stone …

but they always feel Me,

in every act of kindness.

When Wheels Become Prayer

Every temple they visited was sacred, not because I reside there,

but because they arrived with pure hearts and dusty feet. When they bowed before my idol, I bowed back in silence.

Do you know what true worship is?

It’s when one moves closer to compassion, to understanding,

to forgiveness … even without incense or offerings. The father’s patience,

the son’s curiosity,

their laughter after exhaustion,

those were offerings finer than any gold or flower.

The Trials and the Tires When the father’s tire went flat … twice … he did not curse fate.

He simply smiled, sat by the road, and fixed what was broken. In that moment, I blessed him more than I do to a thousand chants.

Because devotion is not in chanting My name, it is in the calm acceptance of delay.

When the son held on to the back of a slow-moving truck on the steep Kasara Ghat,

I watched with amusement.

Ah, the spirit of youth … half mischief, half adventure! And when the father gently explained teamwork at the temple ahead,

I saw wisdom pass like a torch,

one flame lighting another.

Faith Beyond Temples

I reside not only in Moregaon, Siddhatek, or Ranjangaon. I was there in the quiet railway compartment, in the laughter shared over a modest dhaba lunch, in the rhythm of raindrops on their helmets. I was in the silence between them,

the silence that says I understand you without words.

When they cycled through Pune’s chaos,

and strangers waved, smiled, or guided them, I saw My own reflection, in their humanity.

The Return Home, The Real Temple

On the final day, as dawn broke over Pali, I whispered to the moon to guide them one last time. The forest was dark, but their hearts were bright.

At Nagothane station, when a kind man refused payment for tea,

I was the warmth in that cup.

When the train rattled through hills and fields, I danced on the tracks, keeping rhythm with their laughter.

And as they finally entered Nashik …

dusty, weary, glowing …

I watched the family waiting at the door.

The mother’s eyes moist with joy,

the sister’s excitement barely contained.

That … right there … was My temple,

My aarti,

My darshan.

What I Learned from Them

Yes, even gods learn.

I learned that pilgrimage is not a route, it’s a relationship. It’s not about reaching Me,

but about rediscovering Me in each other.

The father learned to let go and trust.

The son learned that strength without gentleness is incomplete.

And both learned that when two hearts move in rhythm, no distance is too long.

A Blessing for All Riders

To all who read their story,

you don’t need to pedal a thousand kilometers to find Me. You only need to slow down.

Look up from your screens.

Listen to your own breath.

Notice the kindness of strangers.

And above all,

ride with someone you love.

Because every shared journey,

every laughter in the rain,

every humble tear at sunset,

is a form of prayer.

The Last Whisper

As they slept that night … father, son, and the two bicycles resting side by side …

I stood invisible beside them.

Their dreams were full of roads and rivers, of temples and tunes.

And I thought to Myself,

perhaps this is why I am called Vighnaharta, the remover of obstacles.

Not because I clear the path,

but because I give the strength to keep pedaling through it.

So I blessed them,

not with wealth or comfort,

but with something rarer,

the wisdom to keep moving, together.

And somewhere, as the dawn rose over Nashik again, a whisper echoed softly across the land:

“Ganpati Bappa Morya!”

the journey continues within …

🎧 Audiobook (Free)

 

What happens when a father and son trade their screens for the open road — and set out on a ~ 1000-kilometer cycling pilgrimage to the eight sacred temples of Lord Ganesha?

Pedaling Through Life is a heartfelt, real-life story of discovery of faith, family, and the unspoken bond between generations. Over eight unforgettable days, Sunil and Shriram pedal through the heart of Maharashtra, meeting strangers who become friends, facing challenges that become lessons, and uncovering divine grace in the most unexpected places.

Told in a warm, conversational, and deeply human voice, this audiobook invites you to slow down, breathe, and journey not just across miles but within yourself.

Whether you’re a parent, a teacher, a student, or a dreamer searching for meaning in motion, this story will inspire you to look at life, relationships, and faith with new eyes.

Listen Full Audiobook / Podcast on;

1. Spotify

https://open.spotify.com/show/2JOeoL4C15T3RRHFCzmRJX?

si=PN7LWTkaRguv4E3WUoJ7Kg

2. Youtube

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL0SLJoaksk-

zSZGTmxcLDUd2C2NmPr9hx

3. Or Read Full Blog Posts with Photographs

https://sunilkhandbahale.com/category/biking/

 

✨ The road awaits — and so does the journey within.

 

॥ Hariḥ Om Tat Sat ॥