Oh Hey, I put some New Shoes on...

My shoes were almost completely worn out; so the first six hundred metres of the nearly nine kilometre marathon were particularly difficult. My feet and the loose gravel of the school ground never really got along and I found myself pushing too hard and yet not gaining enough speed. Thankfully the rest of the track consisted of steadier surfaces. In my first ten years at school I had hated, from the bottom of my heart, sports in general and running in particular. I was never of the athletic variety, elsewhere it’s probably not such a big deal. But in boarding school, you can be an eloquent speaker, an avid reader, an intelligent person, have the sharpest wit, write brilliantly, look reasonably good, but if you are not the competitive as hell, hero of the sporting world, you are pretty much a loser. It also drastically reduces your ability to attract women, ya that was both inexplicable and depressing.

Most of the other sporting action occurred randomly; I was either absent or participated with considerable obscurity. But there was no hiding my ineptitude when it came to athletics and the cross country race. The entire world would be in attendance, and I’d be thoroughly convinced that all they noticed was my ignominious performance on the field. Once again the fact that all the girls were there would cause me exceptional grief.I did have a few famous moments of glory which I think only I can recall. For example in class 2 I scored the wining two runs in a house cricket match, I must however confess that they came off my leg, but what the heck?! The next year I was only one amongst three boys in my division who qualified for the high jump. Now here I was aided not by some great skill or hours of intense training but by the good genes I inherited, which granted my two long thin legs. In my first year in senior school I was the first boy from my class to make it to the House PT Team, it was a proud moment when I walked out of the ‘Kachra Party’ and joined all the others. Yes, those in senior school who were not graceful enough for the PT team were huddled together into a group called ‘Kachra Party’.PT was always my thing, be it the Mass PT, the Torch Drill, the marching, I was quite the epitome of elegance and coordination. Oh I was also quite the man for the Triple Jump; once again my long legs gave me the advantage with a giant skip.

Eh, come to think of it I did have quite a few of these celebrated moments. But none of these were spectacular enough to qualify me as any sort of sportsperson, and I always filled up with dread when it came to the marathon qualifications. The last bit of the race had women on both sides of it, cheering, laughing, clapping, and striking my name off their lists. God, my life really consisted of fretting over the female portion of the school.

The final year of my school was different. Much against the expectation of my seniors, the house masters, my classmates and myself I was denied the post of a Prefect. I didn’t get along too well with the principal’s daughter, and she thought I was too useless to be given such an appointment, I don’t know if I deserved the post or not, but the argument put up against me centred around my not so illustrious sporting career, So, in a remarkable display of character, I decided to prove her wrong by qualifying for the cross country finals. It would be quite the thing, I knew, because nobody, not even my closest friends would give me even half a chance.

So I trained like a dog, both because I had a point to prove and because the guy who actually was made the house captain ensured that I did. Oh, it wasn’t as easy as the movies; often I’d be very close to dying of exhaustion by the time I’d finish the race. And then there was the walk back to the school from the end point which I think I hated more than the marathon itself. Add to this the frugal, tasteless and noxious diet we were given at school; ya, I was pretty miserable. But all the training did in fact help.

After I got through the three rounds of the school grounds, I eased into quite a rhythm. The fact that it was the qualifications and all meant that I didn’t stop even once right up to the first mullah. The mullahs were well, the slang term for the three steep climbs on the race, First mullah, second mullah and the really difficult third mullah. At the second mullah I realised that I was doing pretty well, because two great sporting heroes of our batch were right behind me. Trouble is they noticed this too, at the same time, and couldn’t believe their eyes.

Suddenly they seemed to find extra energy and quickly overtook me. This didn’t bother me much because my ambition was not to come in first or even the tenth, I only intended to qualify. So I kept at it, didn’t even stop running on the mullahs, closed my eyes and hurtled down the slope to ‘bara pathar’ (twelve stones). Ya, people aren’t very creative around there. I hated running on slopes more than the climbs, I’d always hold back, scared that if I let go I’d spin out of control or something. I knew that if I could make it to the last kilometre or so quickly enough, all the cheering would see me through.

This did in fact happen; the quality of the applause was quite different from any I had heard over the years. They actually did want me to run faster, I realised, the whistle hadn’t been blown yet! At the last turn I was overtaken by this formally over weight guy from our batch. Guess he also had a point to prove…

The last fifty metres were quite something, the principal had the black whistle already in his mouth, he would blow it any moment now. The cheering had now evolved into roaring, I remember noticing that the shadow cast by my head was funny, a sort of blunt and wide ‘M’; I combed my hair back then with great regularity and significant care. For some reason it was fashionable in our school for boys to part their hair in the middle. Thankfully we didn’t venture much out of school!

Anyway I did qualify; two guys came in after me and before the whistle was finally blown, I hadn’t stopped running even once for almost half an hour and collapsed on the blanket. Then some girl, damn my stupid memory, I can remember the colour of the stupid whistle, but not who she was, poured some glucose into my mouth. Immediately the fatigue disappeared.

So that was that. I haven’t run for a total of half an hour since that day more than six years ago. I have used that event to maximum benefit, claimed to be a great long distance runner ever since, and built a dramatic story around that race that would outshine even the Chariots of Fire (it includes me sprinting so hard in one part of the race, that I puked and banging into a horse??!).

The principal’s daughter didn’t really acknowledge my herculean efforts, but after the race I gave her quite the look.

******

What is the matter with me? I can’t say anything about anything without making a reference to school. You might be led to believe that I miss it much, but that’s hardly true. Those weren’t even the best years I have ever had. They just form the largest chunk of the time I have spent in my slow stumbling life. When you spend a long enough time in any situation, it becomes almost impossible to escape it. You can keep running away or avoiding or ignoring but the stubborn memories keep coming back.

******

Only a few months of unhealthy living and erratic lifestyle made me gain significant weight, most of this happened around my stomach. A few months ago I decided I would do something about it, so while in the national capital, I spent a small fortune on new shoes, shorts, t shirts, socks. It was the finest set of gear and I was quite proud of myself at being able to afford it. I scouted much of Delhi looking for it; I guess all the effort itself must have made me lose a few kilos. And then I came back home and put everything in my cupboard and resumed my lazy existence. Then came more procrastination, and then came the incessant traveling and finally the kidney stones.

But today I ran. After some six long years, I ran. It was incredible; I guess you might wonder why I am making such a big deal about it. Well, frankly, I’m not too sure myself. I ran only for a couple of kilometres and my legs cramped, and I was sweating like a pig, and my lungs felt like they were wrapped in barbed wire, but it felt good. I think I’ll do this more often, I like the place too; it’s a series of jungle trails in the zoo. Half of the city was there because it was Sunday. Women in saris, old men clapping and walking briskly, sleepy children, lecherous men… I was a bit embarrassed being there in my fancy new shoes and all, and decided to not take my ipod along. I have been strictly instructed by my folks to maintain a low profile.

******

I see my most popular posts are turning out to be the ones where I haven’t written anything. I shall put up more lyrics here then? I don’t know why I am listening to Pink Floyd recently, there is no reason. I am also listening to Paolo Nutini (one song) and copious amounts of jazz; so I guess it is an improvement after all?

******

I also slept during the afternoon today, the first time in months. And I had my first dream in the longest time that I could remember. It consisted of me being at a large house, where there was some sort of party. I went up to the roof where I found myself in some undefined space that had switches in various shapes at two ends; I used them to turn on all the lights. The centre piece was this giant bulb that threw light directly into space. Then I found myself downstairs trying to get someone else to switch of these lights, never admitting that I had turned them on. The house belonged to my distributor. Then I went up to the roof again, using a lift, only this time I was in my own house. The lift jumped a floor and when it was coming down it seemed much shorter in height and also had a hand stuck in its door that jammed its movement. It was pretty scary this bit, and I think I screamed or something (in the dream) and woke up.

My father is always telling me turn off lights; I have this horrible habit of using lights even in the day. I have a fascination for normal yellow bulbs. My distributor occupies my mind and irritates me all day. The news today consisted of the discovery of the dead body of a Nepalese servant who was accused of murdering a fourteen year old girl. His body was found on the roof. And in the morning I saw this old episode of Mahabharata, Bheem was tearing off the arm of one of Duryodhan’s kin to fulfill the promise he made to Draupadi. But I think what scared me was that the hand that was stuck in the lift seemed to be mine. The tip of the middle finger was curving outwards.

An astrologer once said, it meant I’d never get the full share of my appreciation or recognition because of it. Bum!

******

Was having this interesting conversation with a friend recently. He said he was working so hard because he was driven by the money. He found it strange that I was working so hard too but claimed that I didn’t care for the money. It made me think a bit; but eventually I confirmed to myself that the money didn’t mean much. It doesn’t excite me, the amount of money I have in my account or the huge hike I just got. It’s a comfort; it’s something I am aware of, like an expensive piece of clothing I own, something I wouldn’t wear often, something that brings satisfaction simply by being mine. I like that I needn’t worry about where I am eating, what I am ordering, and how much all that extraordinarily worthless running gear cost. That’s about it.

But then I must find this job exciting? Sometimes I think I just don’t want to believe that I could ever feel that way, how can I be excited about selling shampoo? Me the fancy theatre actor? The prospective filmmaker?

Sometimes, I really know I don’t find this job exciting. And sometimes I guess I do, I really do, it’s quite a challenge and delivering the month’s number is almost as satisfying as delivering a great run through. After all aren’t we in the final analysis looking for the same things, money, respect, acknowledgment, challenges, and glory? Selling shampoo is one way of getting all these, making movies is another. Sometimes, I can be comfortably numb about replacing movies with shampoo and getting to wherever it was I wanted to get to.

Sometimes…