The Lost Race

Schools are a trailer to the movie of life.
And in a fit of a 'Eureka' moment, some sadistic P.T. teacher decided that the best way to prepare the fragile minds of the tiny tots entrusted to him was through races. But then he realized that at the sprightly age of eight and nine, when potbellies are alien and rheumatism of the knees is unknown , running is a joy, not a punishment. And with this realization began a saga of scarring young impressionable minds (yours sincerely starring as yours victimized in the series).

Why could a race never be a simple exercise in running from the start to the finish line? Why did it have to involve inanities like carrying a spoon with a pea between your teeth? Worst, why did it have to involve eating bananas when every Indian worth his tan knows that bananas and Indian summers are inimical? And herein lies the key to why the mess-bhaiya has to suffer a daily interrogation about the state of bananas at breakfast and solemnly swear to their un-rotteness.

I was the fastest kid in the block. I ran like the wind, darted like a bee and braked like a butterfly. If there was one chink in my armour, it was an intestine wringing aversion to rotten bananas. And that is where the PT teacher's creative thinking began. The format of the tiny tots' race : run hand in hand with your partner - of the opposite sex (Sri Ram Sena would be so apalled, this debauchery began in school itself. ) - rush to the finish line, gobble bananas and run back to the start line.

The D-day dawned bright and clear. I chose a sterling specimen, fit to be preserved as the finest, perfectest banana there ever was and clung to it like a drowning man to a shark. Through the crowded bus, i shoved for a shove and scratched for a scratch and though I was much bruised, the banana emerged unscathed. And then in this proud moment of victory, fate played foul and dealt me a deathblow.
All the other bananas lay in a careless heap at the end of the finish line and that is where mine was to be kept too! There would be no chance of finding it in this Everest of plantains! My partner and I sped to the finish line like eloping lovers , but the love turned star crossed at the finish when I jumped head long into the banana pile looking for the much protected one I'd brought from home. Needless to say, people came, people ate and people ran back and I suffered the murderous glare of my partner and the humiliation of being the last one left standing at the finish line. Finally, the school captain asked me to budge and make space for the next lot of banana eaters and suggested that maybe the shoe-lace-tying race would be a better idea. But that is another story and meanwhile if you see me turn pale and look petrified at breakfast, just take the rotten banana out of my hand - that's a scarred psyche for you.