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THE SPORTS DAY
Sports Day, for me, was all about sitting in the sun and cheering for the athletic ones of our class, coupled with frequent visits to the school canteen with my gang. I was never much of an athlete at school. But there were two instances when I was also on the track.
If your mind's picturing a girl in high school standing on that track, I'd say picture it again - I was just a kindergartner. I was selected for something they called the biscuit eating race.
We kids are made to stand at the Starting Line. Each of us were given a biscuit each with repeated instructions not to eat them before the sports teacher shouts out ‘Go!’, followed by the tender warning that we couldn't win any prize if we ate them before we heard Go.
Upon hearing the Go signal, we had to eat the biscuit and run to the finishing line. It was against the rules to run with the biscuit or run while still chewing the biscuit. Everything was clear. And so, the sports teacher yelled out, “On your marks. Get set. Go!”
I took my first bite and the next thing I saw was a running girl. "Uh oh!", went my mind, "I wanted to win the race too". So, I decided against any more bits and pushed in the rest of the biscuit. Some voice in me set me thinking if anyone would actually realize if I chewed or not while running. Without a second thought, I ran, chewed and gulped simultaneously. At the finishing line there stood one teacher to judge who came first and another one to examine our mouth.
I won second place and, thanks to my parents, still have that certificate - a mighty big one or a biscuit eating race.
The next year, they invented another race called the doll race. I wonder how they came up with all those races. For this, we participants were required to get a doll. At home, I declared that the doll I owned was not beautiful enough to be taken to school. Yes, I used the opportunity to get another doll. My dad obliged. The next day, I took a beautiful pink doll to school. I felt so proud walking around with that beautiful piece. My happiness was short lived though because I didn't like the rules of this race.
I was scandalized when I heard the instructions. Run and give my beautiful new doll to another girl? That too somebody whom I have never even seen? Why would I ever do that?
Today, I know that it was a relay race. Back then, I didn't care if I won that race or not. I didn't even consider it a race. Needless to say, we lost.
CULTURAL ACTIVITIES
The practice sessions, costumes, green room, makeup, songs, dances, skits, stage settings and the surprise when you see them – muah! I was a performer and loved every bit of it. Today, people ask me where I get my creative ideas from. I owe a good portion of that to my school teachers.
The teachers assigned with these tasks used to come up with such fabulous ideas. Of course, we participants never knew what formations they had in mind, we just practiced according to whatever they instructed. All our programmes, I remember, were very colorful and creative. The costumes were custom-made, the stage settings were beautifully done and everybody was so enthusiastic.
The Indian Republic Day was a spectacular event at our school. Among all the events that I was part of year after year, I particularly remember one in particular.
We knew that we were selected for the Peacock Dance and we gathered that the two senior girls who were selected were the peacocks and we were the feathers. After regular and rigorous days of practice, there we were on the D-day, wondering how we were supposed to be representing peacock feathers wearing white churidars. If there was anything colorful about us, it was the pink lipstick along with the rest of the makeup. During practice sessions, we were told that our hands would be holding on to cloth that would be tied around the peacocks. But why were we in white?
And then, there came out the peacocks with so many broad strips of multi-colored satin cloth tied around their waists. That’s what we were to hold! That was what had replaced those boring pieces of tattered cloth during the practice sessions. So, practically, we were not the feathers but we were supposed to be dancing with the feathers. Believe me, later on when I saw the pictures of our performance; I was so proud of what I was part of, even though nobody saw my face while I was performing. My heart goes out to all those teachers for the challenges they took up!
When I ponder on cultural activities that I was part of in those days, there is another incident that I remember with a lot of clarity. I think I was about 10 years of age. Our school was turning 25 years. Preparations for the Silver Jubilee celebrations were going on in full swing. I was part of a tribal dance. During one of the practice sessions, we were learning a step that demanded a hip shake. Skinny that I was back then, no matter how much I tried; my hip shake just didn't show – it wasn't evident enough when I did it. The teachers in charge of that show, I remember, were games teachers. Both of them were what we students termed as, sweet. But, one of them held the reputation of being an extremely sweet teacher. I was very much in awe of them, because for a long time I had been practicing under them for various events. In my opinion, they did a spectacular job.
All these reasons put together, I was alarmed when this really sweet teacher came storming up to me, caught me by my elbow, pushed me to a corner and asked me to leave because I had no didn't know how to dance. For one, I didn't understand why I was getting yelled at. I had got everything right and I was always selected for such shows at the first go. I felt extremely shocked that a teacher who, I believed, was extremely sweet could attempt to make me feel so little. I came off the shock when all the other participants were giggling at me. And, because those teachers and I shared the same mother tongue, I understood the sarcastic comment they muttered to each other when I was closing the room behind me. I managed to leave the room with clear eyes which welled up on the way to my classroom.
A week later, the same teacher interrupted one of our classes and asked for me. Since, we don’t protest at that age, I went out as instructed. She looked down at me and commanded that I had to come for practice from that afternoon on. “Congratulations! You are taken back in”, she said, towering above me, tapping on my shoulder. “But I don’t know how to dance, teacher. I can’t do that step.”, I said. I didn’t know when a tiny tear or two rolled down my eyes. At this, she came down on her knees to look me in the eye and said, “I am sorry dear.”, she said wiping away my tears, “Please don’t cry. I shouldn't have thrown you out that way. You are always in my team because you pick up steps really fast and do them very gracefully. I was angry, it was not your fault.” I just plain looked at her. This time, she asked me if I would go for practice. I said I would and went back into the class.
Every year the catechism classes and moral studies books taught us about asking pardon. But for the first time I actually learned how to do it.
MY DRAWING BOOK
I can’t draw for nuts. I have a fairly good sense of color but I just can’t draw. I simply love watching people draw mainly because I just don’t know how they do it.
In those days, one of my major issues was how to fill my drawing book. Whatever I could, I traced them out. I managed when it came to topics like my school, the rising sun or the desert, etc. My my school would only have a building and a gate (It’s a holiday, I would say). Whether it was a rising sun or a setting one that was the topic, my picture was a standard – 3 hills with a little bit of the sun peeping out from between two adjacent ones, a river flowing down a portion of the hills, grass on one side of the river, a hut and a coconut tree on the other, black ticks for birds in the sky. The desert was my favorite; a full bright sun, sand dunes, an oasis and a palm tree. It’s not that I didn't think of people walking, camels or so many other cute things – I just couldn't manage to sketch them out.
Any new topic was strenuous. Imagine my situation when I saw a topic such as mother in the kitchen written on the board. Open-mouthed with eyes like saucers - what a dilemma!
The practice was that we needed to get the drawing book signed within a week of the assignment. My classmates wanted to help but identical pictures would lower their grades too. I kept postponing the effort to submit my drawing book to be checked, for obvious reasons. A couple of weeks later, I finally decided that I would ask my neighbor to draw it for me. She was a year senior to me. And we had different teachers, so I didn't see a risk. She obliged. Once I was done with the colors, my drawing book looked so lovely that I couldn't wait to meet our drawing teacher. The very next day, I submitted mine too. The books got back through our class prefect. I opened mine in a hurry and my heart went Pling! There was a tick mark, a Late Work remark and the teacher’s signature.
“Of course it’s late work, but she could have mentioned how it looks, can’t she?”, I asked my friend who sat next to me, in disappointment. As I shut my book I could see her, from the corner of my eye, controlling her laughter with great difficulty. “Laugh!”, I said and we laughed out loud.
The teacher who had to take the next class entered and we learned another lesson that very moment - When you have to stop laughing, is when you just can't.
On that happy note, I'll stop for today and will be back with lot more memories tomorrow!
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