The
Childhood Race
I watched the kid run; windbeater that he was. Naked slim waist upwards, he started his race from
one end of the potholed street to the other mindless of the other runners, pushing them one by one into the sidelines. I did the same during my
childhood race.
With just a hundred yards to go his pace slackened and the bully caught up. “Hai! Hai!” I cried and punched the empty space before me giving him a fictitious boost using which he surged ahead-yet again! Arms pumping up and down with innocent fury, the desire to win burning bright in his russet eyes, the twelve year old sped along like a road runner-on towards the
finish, just like I had done.
Perchance I scanned the finish line and found an ugly stone, the same ugly stone, just before the line and screamed “Watch out.”
Today he did. During my day, I did not.
He jerked and twisted his entire hip just in time to avoid that stone which I did not see during my childhood race.
He won. Back then, I only fell.
With wild ecstasy and a tinge of jealousy, I rolled my wheel chair noisily, painfully forward to hug my hero.