Life is a race and we are all constantly running it. A race against time, a race against competition, a race against nature, a race against bad times and hard luck, mostly a race against ourselves. An attempt to outrun our haggard personas that we perceive daily in a thousand looking glasses that modern civilization erects to shine the unkind light of self-examination on our weary selves, that we may seek to hide behind the macabre masks of makeup, gaudy garments and plastic smiles, as manufactured more or less as that shiny new convertible that bears the promise of ferrying us away from this mundane merry-go-round. And all this to earn a few guineas, a few accolades, only to squander the true joys of life, which doubtless are to be found in the accumulation of treasures of experience and memories, not fickle paper fortunes, subject to the vicissitudes of the stock market and the follies and foibles of human nature.
Such lofty philosophical thoughts filled the spartan craniums of our dramatis personæ, Ramu Somu of many a notorious fame, on a murky monsoon day in July, in the rain-drenched by-lanes of small-town Shivajinagar. Triggered doubtless by the upcoming school athletics competition, in which our lads were underdog participants, perennial dark horses, never known what it is like to ascend a podium or feel the satisfyingly cold metallic touch of a medal, intimately familiar with none-too-flattering phrases like “bite the dust”, “bringing up the rear”, “no-hopers” and “making up the numbers”. The subject of constant and merciless ridicule by the front-runners, the evergreen winners, Chaggan and Jagan, darlings of the coach, the uncouth, ruthless and curmudgeonly Janardhan Sir, more animal than man, more hirsutely endowed than certain specimens of a simian variety, known to flog errant pupils as mercilessly as desperate jockeys astride recalcitrant mares.
When all legitimate tactics to improve their fortunes had met with consummate failure, the boys’ thoughts drifted toward the darker end of the spectrum. Ramu, the more enterprising half of the duo, was hatching ideas like the neighbor’s hen, Ganga, renowned for its prodigious brood of chicks. Somu was used as the proverbial sounding board to test the soundness of the ideas, although his role was more passive than the casual observer might be led to believe. As uncharitable as it sounds, a mannequin would have fared just as well as Somu when it came to filtering, evaluating and refining Ramu’s plethora of shady schemes. Nevertheless, when it came to execution, he was no dummy, but a loyal Man Friday who breathed life into Ramu’s ingenious ideas.
Ramu’s deviously diabolical plan it surfaced was to have Somu, the scapegoat, fall guy, amiable accomplice, cause an innocently accidental trip-up, with Chaggan Jagan among the chief victims in the casualty list, while he himself, conveniently and one might add, rather unchivalrously proceeded to clinch the race. The plot was thus hatched and what time may have been spent training in right earnest was spent instead on vainglorious pipe dreams and childish fantasies of post-race adulation and elevation to the highest pedestals of school stardom and celebrityhood.
Janardhan Sir fired off the start gun signaling the commencement of the 800 meter race. The runners clustered together into a tight bunch, as was the norm, in efforts to conserve precious energy for the all-important final dash. Ramu kept to the right of the bunch, taking care to keep a safe distance between himself and the herd, while Somu jogged to the left, looking for the ideal opportunity to execute the malicious strategy. As they passed the 200 meter mark, the opportunity presented itself. As they neared a bend in the track, Somu taking advantage of being on the inside suddenly swerved ahead of the bunch, and planted a brazen right leg directly in the advancing herd’s path.
The entire lot was caught totally unawares and a group somersault ensued. It seemed to Somu that the whole drama was unfolding in slow motion - out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of an airborne Chaggan Jagan, vaulting ahead in front of the group. Miraculously, or confoundedly - if you were seeing things from Somu’s point of view, they landed back on their feet after a 180 degree flip, like teenaged Chinese gymnasts at the end of their floor routine, and continued running with terrific acceleration as to avoid falling flat on their faces. This wholly unanticipated chain of events and the ensuing surge took them about 10 meters ahead of the fallen group, to Ramu’s perplexed consternation, shock and vexation. His fond hopes of a golden victory instantly vaporized like so many of his daydreams. He consoled himself with thoughts of a bronze medal. At least he would finally know what it felt like to ascend the hallowed podium.
Engrossed thus in his fond reverie, he had failed to observe that Chandrapal, sickly and thin as a wafer, of Ethiopian long distance runner build, had avoided the trap laid by Somu, and skirted around the mass of tangled legs. In a final burst of raw energy that astounded onlookers, bag-of-bones Chandrapal overtook an obliviously sauntering Ramu by the cruelest of margins. Shock, confoundment, disbelief, rage, bewilderment. Words were painfully inadequate to describe Ramu’s state of mind at this delicate juncture.
Ultimately, justice had been done and glittering medals proudly hung on worthy necks. Ramu Somu in this dark moment of despair and licking their still raw wounds vowed to henceforth follow the straight road to redemption.