The Sports Day

Chinx sits at the beach of Priya Darshani Park with his friends. Dressed in white shorts and T-shirts of their respective house colours, they stand in a row with stones of different shapes and sizes in their hands. They throw one stone at a time into the sea on a count of three, competing as to whose stone goes farthest. Chinx would particularly look for round stones which would spin in the air cutting longer distance. He would place the stone between his pudgy index finger and the thumb and fling the gravel applying force with his forefinger. They would play several rounds of this match until they are physically tired of standing and throwing the pebbles. Then, they would look for shells. Chinx would generally look for flat shells with glossy surface and sequenced embossed lines, collecting them in his pockets.

A couple of yards behind them hundreds of students along with their parents galore to watch, play, participate, and cheer for their houses. ‘Red house Red house … Red house Red house’, the crowd would bellow in an undecided chorus.

Chinx is viewing this spectacular scene from a distance. Some are gleefully devouring their sandwich ice-creams. Some are throwing their caps in the air. Some are sliding on the sanded slope meant for the students to sit; touching the railing of the ground and quickly returning to be in their place before their friends, and then they would stand-up again, dusting the backs of their half-pants. Some are pasting the numbered stickers on their T-shirts waiting for their turn; while some are intently watching the happenings on the ground.

At three thirty PM, Chinx stands on the allotted track to run his race; his dusty canvas shoes slightly rising and falling in no particular pattern. The end of shoes laces are tucked in the narrow openings at the sides of the shoes. Chinx is ready for his run …

Run till you cross the line... run till the end... even if the winners are timed, do not ever leave a race half way... completing a race is more important than participating in it... I will be proud of you Chinx... remember, your mother will be proud of you.

His mother's words are constantly reverberating in his mind, each word pricking him like a piece of glass. He tries to concentrate on the race. Right now, his mother's words are not important, not at this time, for he is going to win this race. He is no more merely a backdrop runner; he is not jeered at. He is the best runner in his team.

On a mark, get set, go...

His eyes squint, facing the blaring sun. His legs quiver as he tracks the trot of the lead runner of his team. “Come on Paras, run faster,” he mumbles in fear. The distance between Paras and the second runner is noticeable even from a distance. His plump body paces ahead swiftly making its way to the second runner of the team. Now, he can see him standing, gasping for air, bent at a forty-five degree, and his head drooping.

His eyes fix on the third runner. His legs quaver. His heartbeats quicken. He feels the lump in his legs. His hands are sweaty, trembling; as his mother's words grow louder... cross the line, cross that line, your mother will be proud ... the baton is passed form one hand to the other. Held in the right hand firmly, his legs jerk as he lifts them. His steps are short and fast, like a trot. “I can’t let them down. All I have to do is maintain the lead,” the thoughts rumble. He moves as fast as he can, running his best run. The movements of his legs fasten, cutting short distances. The trot is transformed to a canter. He runs the finishing ten meters of the last leg and gives out a loud cry as he crosses the finishing line.

He drops to the floor and then quickly rises again. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, running toward his teammates, randomly jumping on his way; swinging the baton high in the air.

The hot wind is not palpable. The gush of the tide is not heard. They lay on the track, basking under the sun, bewildered. They have made it. This year, they have made it.

As he rests there, beneath the wide spread sky, he thinks of all the times when he had lost. The day when he fell and he quit the race. The day when the crowd was waiting for him to finish the race, so that the next event could start. The day when he sat next to his ayah and cried on her lap, curling him around her.

They were fourteen of them on the ground. Twelve participated and two supervised. One started the race and the other one recorded the finish time. It was one month before the sports day, when they decided to not to take part in it and formed their own team. It was named "The Fat Men's Team”, and only the fat boys were allowed in the team. If any of the boys ever participated and won in any of the final sports day, they weren't allowed to enter the team. They had their own set of rules and regulations. “It’s not fair to race with those chums,” they told to themselves.

For Chinx, he didn't get a medal; neither did he get a certificate. But he did get his name, The Title of ‘The Fastest Fat man.’