“Thank you, Papa,”
said Manu gratefully.
“Hasn’t your rear
tyre been through quite a few punctures? Get the tube changed as
well. We don’t want the air leaking out in a race.” Manu was
delighted with his father’s generosity. Papa had taught him to
cycle years ago, but now they didn’t get to spend much time
together.
***
Next morning,
Manu stopped by at the mechanic’s to fix his “appointment” for the
afternoon, and told him everything he wanted done. “I have to win a
race,” he said importantly. He rode faster than usual and Sharad
complained, “We’ll reach school in no time. What will we do there?
Let’s slow down and chat”.
“No, let’s race.
It’s a cold morning and I want to warm up,” said Manu, and they
both started pedalling hard, leaning into the wind. Sharad started
gaining a lead. First by a wheel’s length, then by a cycle’s
length, and it certainly wasn’t a photo finish at the school gate.
Sharad was panting and sweating, but Manu was gasping. He sat with
his head resting on the handlebar, legs spread wide. He could swear
that he had pedalled twice as many times as Sharad, yet lost. He
hated his cycle, felt disgust for the “ladies” model, and realized
that he had got into an unequal match. How much difference would
practice make? He had just over a week to overcome the double
handicap of age and a smaller cycle.
The friends parked
their cycles and walked to their classrooms. But while Sharad
chattered on, Manu was very quiet. The pain of defeat was hardening
into grim resolve and for the next few days he was a very different
boy.
In the afternoon,
Sharad found that Manu had left without waiting for him. He felt
bad but there were other friends who used to cycle with them half
the way, and he wasn’t alone till almost his campus wall. As he
turned left off the main road he saw Manu sitting beside the cycle
mechanic on his blazer. “Oye,” Sharad shouted, “why didn’t you wait
for me?” Manu avoided his eyes. He was still hurting from the
morning’s defeat and lied that he needed to get his cycle
repaired.
Sharad came over
and sat down to see what was going on, but Manu didn’t want even
his best friend to see how he was getting his bike ready for the
race. “Let’s go home,” he said, “this job is going to take a while.
My cycle was in a bad shape”. And then turning to the mechanic he
said, “keep it ready, bhaiya, I will come back for it in two
hours”.
When Manu didn’t
come to play in the evening, Sharad came to his house and learned
that Manu was already out playing. “Where, aunty? I didn’t see him.
He’s been acting funny since the morning.” Manu’s mother was
alarmed but didn’t show it. She knew her son’s temper. It was best
to wait till he decided to tell her what was going on.
Without informing
anyone, Manu had gone back to school, and by avoiding the guard’s
eye had brought his newly-mended cycle to the race track. When the
other students finished their sports practice and left around 5pm,
he started riding on the track. He didn’t have a stopwatch but
using his black HMT he timed every lap to the nearest second. At
first, his speed increased with each lap, but as he grew tired he
became slower, and the worsening lap times made him dejected. He
rested on the grass, which had turned cold even before sunset, and
let it dig into his palms. There was no one around and the two old
Bahadurs, both Nepalese guards, who watched the gate were too lazy
to leave their chairs. Only the stray dog that kept them company
came over wagging its tail and sat beside Manu, who patted him
gratefully. He wanted to win, he felt he SHOULD win, but realized
that it wouldn’t happen. Not this year.
The dog watched
him patiently as he went round the track again and again, now
driven by plain fury rather than strength. But the laps became
slower and slower till finally, boiling with rage he flung the
cycle on the ground and lay down near the dog shielding his eyes
with both forearms. Did Manu cry? Who knows? No human eye saw him,
and the dog had sworn itself to secrecy.
“How’s the cycle?”
Papa asked Manu when he got home.
“Horrid.”
Ma, who had
worried through the afternoon, lost her cool at this retort. “Where
have you been? And don’t lie, I know you were not in the campus.
Sharad told me.”
“That Sharad, who
does he think he is?” Manu hated Sharad that moment. “Just because
he has a better cycle, he thinks he is a better cyclist!”
Papa sensed
something amiss and motioned to Ma to be quiet. “Why, didn’t you
get your cycle fixed in the afternoon? I just paid the mechanic a
princely 150 rupees. Show me what he has done to your cycle.”
This sign of
involvement was just what Manu needed and he told Papa everything
that had happened since the morning once they were out of Ma’s
hearing. “Tomorrow morning,” said Papa, “I want to see your lap
timings. Get up early and you can sprint around the block. It’s not
a great cycle, son, I know, but YOU are a GREAT cyclist. You can
even out whatever advantage the others have. Believe me.”
***
Manu hardly
slept that night but he wasn’t tired or dull or sleepy or any of
those other things people feel in the books after sleepless nights.
He was eagerly waiting for the morning, and jumped out of bed as
soon as he heard Ma stir. She was always the first to rise. She saw
his eager, clear-eyed look and was relieved. “Milk?” she said. “In
a minute, Ma, I will brush and be with you.”
He had hot milk
with an extra spoonful of Bournvita while sitting on the kitchen
counter. Afterwards, he dashed off downstairs to clean the bike. Ma
found him a completely changed person that morning. He was running
up and down the stairs. After cleaning the cycle he came up for
grease, and then for polish, till Papa warned him that he would be
too tired to race if he kept up like this. So, Manu had his bath
and told Ma he would breakfast after the time trial with Papa.
Only the milkmen
and paperboys were out at that hour. In those days of cheap petrol,
the milkmen in Chandigarh used to ride Enfield Bullet bikes with
massive drums slung on either side. Those drums also served as
side-stands for the hefty bikes.
Manu pedalled
furiously round their house block that measured about 100 metres on
one side. One loop around it was longer than the school’s 200m
running track, but since it was a bitumen road the cycle went
faster than it would on the mud track of the playground. However,
the right-angled turns at the corners of the block forced Manu to
slow down and added a few seconds to his time. So, all things
considered, his timing on the block gave a fair estimate of his
performance on the track.
Every time he
passed Papa, Manu looked for a sign. He was pedalling in a standing
position, swinging the cycle from side to side, and going as fast
as he could. His brow was moist and his throat dry. Papa saw all of
that and was concerned. He realized that the cycle was just not
made for racing, and Manu’s timing—three minutes for five laps or
roughly 1,200 metres—was not fast enough for a medal. He would have
gladly bought Manu a new cycle that day but he had promised to pay
for a relative’s treatment and didn’t have spare cash that
month.
“Was I good,
Papa?” Manu asked hopefully after the run.
“You were superb,”
Papa said, which was partly true because Manu had put his heart
into the sprint. “Just don’t swing the bike so much, you might
fall. Now run upstairs and eat something.”
Manu cycled fast
to school and back home but didn’t race Sharad to avoid any more
pain before the actual race. He practised in the evening, and Papa
checked his timing every morning. It improved a little every day
and Papa noted it down in a diary to make Manu happy, but he knew
in his heart that a medal finish was unlikely.
All the new parts
of the cycle had been run in nicely before race day arrived and
Manu took the cycle back to to the mechanic for some final fixes.
The chain needed just a bit of tightening—not too much, for that
would slow down his pedalling, but just enough to ensure that it
didn’t come off on the track. The brakes were tweaked and a final
round of oiling and greasing was done. All that remained was to
fill up the tubes extra hard to competition level, but that was a
rite to be performed on the morning of Race Day.
***
Thursday
arrived, and the students came to school in their white uniforms.
There were no books or bags, only tiffin boxes and water bottles
which they deposited in their classroom desks. For many of the
students, Manu included, it was a day to while away with chatting,
walking around the grounds, cheering friends, and getting a
mouthful from Jacob Sir every time they strayed onto the track or
the field in the middle of an event.
Manu had to run
the heats of the 100m race, and he clowned his way down the track
to last place, much to the merriment of his classmates. When Jacob
Sir asked him why he had put up the silly show, he replied with
mock-seriousness: “Sir, I was trying to keep my fleet shoes clean
for tomorrow’s prize distribution ceremony”. You could take a few
liberties with Jacob Sir, he was like an elder brother to every
student.
On Thursday night,
Manu ate an extra chapati for the race. He slept early and was up
first, but Papa told him to conserve all his strength, so they did
not go out to practise that morning. After a hearty breakfast and a
final inspection of the cycle, Manu left for school with many hugs
and blessings. On the way, both he and Sharad stopped at the cycle
repair shop to inflate their tyres hard. They first checked them by
pressing between thumb and forefinger, and then dropped the cycles
from a few inches high to see how well they bounced. Satisfied, the
boys rode to school without any rush.
The second day of
the sports meet was always a long one. All the events had to be
wrapped up, and afterwards there was the prize distribution
ceremony. Even those who hadn’t won a prize had to stay back till
the end to sit and clap below the stage. The cycle race final was
the last track event of the day, after which there only remained
the tug-of-war, which was more of a friendly fight to ease the
tension of fierce contests over two days.
With dozens of
participants in the two age categories—for both boys and girls—the
cycle race heats had to be started in the early afternoon. They
interspersed the other races and lifted the mood on the field. For
every race the partisans of the contestants crowded around the
track and shouted off their lungs. There were six heats in the
junior boys group, and Manu’s name was called in the third one.
The cyclists lined
up on the track, with those in the outer lanes placed ahead to
compensate for their longer track length. Manu was in the third
lane, and the only one on a small bike. His red Hero Jet looked out
of place amid the Atlas Concordes and BSA Machs. He saw that boys
who didn’t own sports bikes had borrowed them for the race from
their seniors.
“On your marks,”
Jacob Sir shouted.
Manu grit his
teeth, his heart was pounding like a hammer.
“Set.”
The cyclists
leaned forward on their handlebars, coiling their arm and leg
muscles.
“Go!”
Manu rode like a
man possessed. He was slower than the field in the first lap but he
didn’t give up. Those who had shot ahead in the first lap started
slowing down in the second, and he saw that Papa had been right
about the importance of practising. He was still very much in the
race. In the third lap, Manu moved up to fourth place, and going
into the fourth he was tailing Rajiv in second place. Rajiv was
from the other section and realizing he could not keep up the lead
much longer, he started cutting into Manu’s path. It was a
dangerous and foul trick, and Manu heard the crowd shouting his
name in one voice. “Maa-nu, Maa-nu, Maa-nu.”
Fifth lap, and
Rajiv was still baulking Manu. They came into the final straight
but Manu was too tired by then to cover a full cycle length and
win. Rajiv had forced him to brake and catch up repeatedly. In just
a few more seconds the race was over. Rajiv beat Manu by a whisker
and reached the finals. The crowd roared “shame, shame, shame” and
Manu, who had crashed on the grass too tired to stand, saw the
teachers and Principal Ma’am huddled in discussion. He wanted to
beat up Rajiv, who was lying face down on the grass a few feet
away, and then go home, but didn’t feel up to anything just
then.
He heard his name
on the loudspeaker, and Rajiv’s too. Then he heard the crowd
shouting “yay”. The teachers had seen Rajiv cheat and decided on a
rematch between him and Manu. Just one lap, to pick the finalist.
Manu couldn’t believe his luck. He staggered to his feet, picked up
his bike and made for the track. Rajiv followed, looking dead beat,
but more importantly, shamefaced.
On your marks.
Set. Go! Their lungs burning and their legs bent upon rebellion,
both boys pushed on with their last ounce of energy, but Rajiv gave
up before the straight and Manu made it home safely. It was the
slowest cycle race anyone saw but to Manu it seemed the fiercest.
He had made it to the final and won many friends. Jacob Sir patted
him on the back affectionately and Uma Ma’am, his class teacher,
came over to talk to him. One of the student volunteers gave him an
extra-sweet glass of glucose. The other contestants sized him up
cautiously. Manu felt very important and happy. The only let down
was that Neha, his secret crush, hadn’t come to school that day.
“No hard feelings,” he told Rajiv magnanimously.
***
While the
cycling heats continued, Manu polished off his lunch and rested.
The final was going to be one hard race. Each one of the finalists
was a winner, and all the others had better cycles. Also, none of
them had been through two heats that afternoon. Manu rubbed his
thighs and calf muscles. He stretched and walked about slowly.