"It wobbles. Yours doesn't wobble." Here "wobbles" means

When Diya's little brother got a new bicycle for his birthday, Diya decided to hate it.

It was red, with a bell and a basket and streamers on the handles, and it had been bought new, from the shop. Diya's own bicycle had belonged to a cousin, and before that to another cousin, and before that, her father claimed, to somebody in the Mughal army. Its bell had been silent for years.

For a week she did not look at the red bicycle. She did not say it was nice. When Kabir rode it round the courtyard, ringing the bell, she went inside and shut the door.

On the eighth day, Kabir came to find her. He had fallen off twice that morning, and his knee was scraped.

"It goes too fast," he said, near tears. "And it wobbles. Yours doesn't wobble."

Diya looked at him. She thought of all the things she could say. Then she went out to the courtyard, held the back of his seat, and ran beside him up and down until her legs hurt and he stopped wobbling.

That evening her father found the two of them oiling the chain of the old bicycle together.

"I thought you hated his bicycle," he said.

"I did," said Diya. "It's hard to hate something when you're holding it up."