But his teammates
were still laughing. They thought it was a good trick. Well, the
trick certainly did him some good. His mind all shaken up, Manu
remembered good old Newton’s ‘spectrum’. The simple colour disk
which, when rotated at speed, turns white. That was a first-rate
science principle, and an easy one to demonstrate with a motor.
He set to work
immediately. While Neha and Samar made a VIBGYOR disk each, he cut
a neat square out of the remaining thermocol, made a seat for the
motor, and two rectangular slots for the battery and the switch.
The wires ran under the base and so were hidden from view. It was a
neat little thing. Once the disks were ready, they fixed one of
them on the motor, turned on the switch, and presto, the seven
coloured arcs became a clean white circle!
“It works! it
works!” all of them cheered. They were not going to be the butt of
the class’ jokes now. Manu was back to being his heroic self and
issued some more instructions. “Vikram, you keep the project safe
till tomorrow. Neha, please make a chart explaining the scientific
principle, and I am going home now, see you tomorrow.”
“Who will
demonstrate the project?” Raj asked. “Why, me, of course,” Manu
said walking out with his bag. Then he turned around and added:
“Actually, we should do it by turns, Neha and I will start together
in the morning, and then you can take over in twos”. He was really
upbeat, for this time he didn’t even consult Neha about her
role.
So the exhibition
came and went. The water cycle model won a prize and Ginny gloated,
but Manu didn’t lose face, and he proudly told everyone that his
was the only working model at the exhibition. He also thought the
two weeks were well spent because now Neha and he were good
friends. He could always walk up and talk to her. He remained the
alpha boy of the class.
But nobody noticed
the burnt socket and it was never fixed.
***
By the time
January bowed out even the most careless students were writing 1989
at the top of their classwork pages. It is always so difficult to
break the date habit when a new year starts, isn’t it?
The days were a
little warmer now and most mornings were sunny, and Chandigarh was
the most beautiful city in the world. Looking out of the
first-storey windows of their north-facing classroom, the 6-B
students could see the white and blue mountains and the Kasauli
transmission tower. The sky was inky blue and kites hovered on it,
eyeing the choice morsels children had dropped in the playground
during the tiffin break. The ground itself shone golden and the
thick, waxy leaves of the mango trees were a glossy green. But
nobody played in their shade because it was the best time to be out
in the sun.
And one morning,
the notice everyone had waited for went up on the bulletin board.
The annual sports meet would be held next Thursday and Friday,
everyone was supposed to participate in at least one event but not
more than three.
The sports meet
was the last big event that year because the annual function had
been held in December, before the Christmas break. The final exams
were just six weeks away and then it would be time to move up one
level. The students were excited about every little thing in their
lives. Well, maybe not the exams.
In the morning,
there was a noisy crowd of students around the bulletin board, and
teachers on their way to the staffroom hushed them by turns.
“Children, be quiet”, said the easy-going ones as they picked their
way through, smiling and blessing the bobbing heads. “What is this,
is this a fish market?” said the less tolerant ones, and the
students quieted down and gave way. And then, there came Lata Ma’am
in her favourite pink sari. A picture of righteous indignation, she
forgot she was running late and clenching her eyelids shut,
delivered a loud sermon on discipline and manners and duty and
responsibility without pausing to breathe. By the time she opened
her eyes the crowd had melted away.
Jacob Sir was a
harassed man that morning. Sir, sir, sir, sir, the students cried
like a flock of birds as they chased him to enter their names for
the various events. “Not now, go, go, go, later, eh go away, man,”
he fended them off as he rushed here and there ensuring the
arrangements for the morning assembly were in order. Rekha Ma’am,
the other sports instructor, watched the hubbub happily. Unlike
Jacob Sir, she never got hassled, but the students still loved him
more because he was so full of life and always willing to go the
extra mile for the gifted players. You could request him to stay
back till 8pm before a big competition, and he would not say
no.
Class 6 was in the
junior group. The students had won a lot of medals at the head of
the sub-junior group the previous year but this time they had to
fight off competition from class 7. There was a beeline for the
races—100 metres, 200 metres, 400 metres hurdles and 800 metres,
and 4x400 metres relay—with most names coming for the 100-metre
dash. Fewer students opted for the jumps—long jump and high
jump—and fewer still for the unfamiliar throws—shot put and
discus.
Manu said he
didn’t care to run (he had come close to winning a ‘frog race’ in
KG, but having lost it he had developed a strong dislike for races)
or jump (because the clothes got all muddy. If Rekha Ma’am
compelled him to do a long jump, he deliberately landed on his feet
to keep the seat of his trousers clean). And of the throws he said
they were for the Neanderthals (he had found the word while
lucky-dipping through the Encyclopaedia Britannica to show off in
front of his class). “Won’t you participate in anything?” Samar
asked him hopefully as he wasn’t the sporty type himself.
“Actually, genius, I will this time,” said Manu to his friend, “I
intend to win the cycle race this year”.
The cycle race was
very much the alpha-boy event of the annual meet. It was always the
finale and every show-off, every stud-in-the-making huffed and
puffed through it. But it was open to students only after class 5,
and so, this would be Manu’s first attempt in it. “Are you sure you
can win it?” said Samar dubiously. The older boys were not only
stronger but had better cycles. Manu still pottered around on a red
Hero Jet that had turned orange with age. Manu’s wedged eyebrow
said, “What do you mean?” and Samar hurriedly conceded: “Of course,
you are a very good cyclist and there’s none better than you in our
class, or in the other section”. And when Manu didn’t seem
satisfied with this praise, Samar added, “It’s not about cycles, I
am sure, what matters is the rider”.
“Yes,” said Manu
coldly.
He waited for the
games period, and that day, to everybody’s surprise, he was the
first one to reach the field. “Jacob Sir,” he ran shouting, and as
soon as he reached the games teacher, he asked him to enter his
name for the cycle race. “Manu, that’s not athletics,” sir told
him, “you should take part in the 100-metres at least. Can’t you
run for a few seconds? C’mon man, what are you?” Manu took the
rebuke with a smile although his heart revolted at the suggestion
and his mind told him that the dash would leave his lazy legs
aching and he would be in no shape to cycle fast after that. But he
couldn’t say no to a teacher, and so, his name went into two
columns: 100-metre dash and cycle race.
***
Manu didn’t
doubt he was the fastest cyclist in the junior group, but about his
cycle he wasn’t so sure. It was an old, sturdy thing handed down by
his elder sister. It wasn’t even a boy’s cycle really because it
didn’t have a triangular frame, but then he loved it because he had
learned to cycle on it. It could go pretty fast when he wanted it
to, and it could balance at a standstill when they were playing
dogfights. He certainly wasn’t embarrassed to ride it, but some of
its parts were not to his liking. For instance, the boxy stand. All
his friends had side-stands on their bikes. And he wished the
handlebar had been straight or the drop-down type like on the
racing cycles. But there was no point quibbling about it because he
had spoken to the cycle mechanic many times and he had said
changing the handlebar would also require a change of brakes, and
the operation would cost quite a bit.
That afternoon,
Manu rode his cycle home gently. He listened for every sound, every
creak, every rattle. He observed every false movement, every wobble
of the handlebar and every jerk of the pedal. Most of all, he
looked out for a wavy motion of the front wheel. The brakes were a
bit soft, he thought after he had speeded up and applied them with
all his strength. The skid marks were too short. “What’s with you,
why can’t you cycle at a steady pace?” his friend Sharad asked
crossly. Sharad was a year older but they lived in the same campus
and had been best friends since they were shy little boys.
“Nothing, nothing, my cycle needs repairing,” said Manu, careful
not to say too much because Sharad would be in the race, too, and
he had a sports cycle.
Manu was very
quiet at the table, and his mother remarked on it. “Did you fight
in the class?” she said. A silent sideways shake of the head. “Are
you unwell?” The same motion. “Did a teacher scold you?” Silence.
“Do you want anything?” Silence. Ma went to her room and lay down
for a nap. “Ma,” Manu yelled, now that he wasn’t getting any
attention. “What?” she said. “Can I have 100 rupees in the
evening?”
“Why?”
“I have to get my
cycle fixed for the sports day race.”
“Ask your
papa.”
“But it will be
dark by the time he comes. I have to practise.”
“It can wait for a
day.”
“Humph,” said
Manu, “I am not hungry”.
But Ma didn’t
reply so he finished his lunch quietly and after popping a large
spoonful of Bournvita (which he wasn’t allowed to do) he slipped
out of the house quietly with pen and paper. This is what he
wrote:
1) Wheel rims need
straightening. 2) Many spokes missing. 3) Front tyre worn; replace
with rear tyre, install new tyre at the back. 4) Get new brake
shoes. 5) Tighten handle. 6) Remove stand, carrier and mudguards
(only for competition day).
He chewed on the
pen for a while. Number 6 was a tricky point. His father would
never allow it, so it would have to be done secretly early in the
morning in connivance with the mechanic. He would have to start
from home at least an hour in advance, and how was he going to
explain that? And what if his father came to the shop near the
mechanic’s kiosk to buy bread and found the operation underway? No,
better seek permission and do it.
7) Remove the bell
(it tinkled all the time if the road was bumpy). 8) Raise the
saddle. 9) Get axles and balls checked. 10) Oiling and
greasing.
He studied the
10-pointer with satisfaction. A 9-point list would have seemed
amateurish. Another idea came to his mind but he did not write it
down as then he would have to think of four more to make a nice
round number. Besides, the new point was unlikely to be realized.
Manu’s cycle was small, its wheels were small, not baby wheels but
smaller than those on Sharad’s cycle, and the front chain sprocket
was also small, so he had to pedal harder to compete. He would have
liked to replace it with a giant sprocket, like the one Sharad’s
classmate Sandeep had on his bike, but it was unlikely his father
would permit the modification. Papa is so conservative in
everything, Manu thought annoyed.
He pulled out a
cloth that was kept underneath the seat of their Vijai Deluxe
scooter. Papa used it to clean the scooter and it smelt lightly of
Waxpol polish. He gave the chrome handlebar a gentle rub with it
and was surprised how well it shone. He had never cleaned his
bicycle and felt sorry, not ashamed. I will clean my cycle every
Sunday now, he promised himself. His hand worked rapidly, rubbing
the painted parts first, but the paint was old and had lost all its
lustre, so Manu went after the chrome then. The wheel rims, the
pedal cranks and the seat shaft. He was very pleased with the
result.
When papa returned
home from work, there was some hard negotiation over tea. “Don’t
get ideas into your head, Manu,” Papa said sternly, “it’s a good
enough cycle to go to school on, and that’s the purpose I gave it
to you for”. And then, turning to Ma, “Why can’t he run in a race
like normal boys? Always has to do something out of the way. And
dangerous. You realize how badly you will be hurt if you fall in
front of the other cycles?”
“But I won’t,”
said Manu, “I’m really good on a cycle”. “Bah,” said Papa, “how
many months has it been since you rode into that lamppost?” Manu
had lost balance on a turn (he said his brakes didn’t work) and hit
the post. The cycle fell off under him and he was left clinging to
the post while his chin bled. Another time he had gone into a
parallel bars. While he stopped after hitting his chest on one of
the beams, his cycle passed clean underneath. He had rushed home to
inspect the injury. There was blood on his vest from a wide, black
bruise. He cleaned it with Dettol and rubbed Soframycin on it, and
never told anyone about it. It helped that Manu never cried. He had
given up crying after an accident in KG.
His hurt look
melted Ma’s heart, and she said, “It’s only the essentials he is
asking for, dear. Some oiling and servicing, and maybe a new tyre,
right?” Manu handed papa his 10-pointer, who examined it with
mingled surprise and pride. Fathers feel proud to see signs of
maturity and responsibility in their boys. “All right,” he said,
but struck out points 6 and 7. “Nothing comes off the cycle. You
are not riding to school without a bell or mudguards. You want Ma
to spend even more time on rubbing the dirt off your clothes?”
This, he said with mock anger.
Manu shrugged and
accepted the deal. He’d been 80% successful. “And you tell the
mechanic to do whatever you need done, but leave the payment part
to me.”