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when a new year starts, isn’t it?
    The days were a
little warmer now and most mornings were sunny, and Chandigarh was
the most beautiful city in the world. Looking out of the
first-storey windows of their north-facing classroom, the 6-B
students could see the white and blue mountains and the Kasauli
transmission tower. The sky was inky blue and kites hovered on it,
eyeing the choice morsels children had dropped in the playground
during the tiffin break. The ground itself shone golden and the
thick, waxy leaves of the mango trees were a glossy green. But
nobody played in their shade because it was the best time to be out
in the sun.
    And one morning,
the notice everyone had waited for went up on the bulletin board.
The annual sports meet would be held next Thursday and Friday,
everyone was supposed to participate in at least one event but not
more than three.
    The sports meet
was the last big event that year because the annual function had
been held in December, before the Christmas break. The final exams
were just six weeks away and then it would be time to move up one
level. The students were excited about every little thing in their
lives. Well, maybe not the exams.
    In the morning,
there was a noisy crowd of students around the bulletin board, and
teachers on their way to the staffroom hushed them by turns.
“Children, be quiet”, said the easy-going ones as they picked their
way through, smiling and blessing the bobbing heads. “What is this,
is this a fish market?” said the less tolerant ones, and the
students quieted down and gave way. And then, there came Lata Ma’am
in her favourite pink sari. A picture of righteous indignation, she
forgot she was running late and clenching her eyelids shut,
delivered a loud sermon on discipline and manners and duty and
responsibility without pausing to breathe. By the time she opened
her eyes the crowd had melted away.
    Jacob Sir was a
harassed man that morning. Sir, sir, sir, sir, the students cried
like a flock of birds as they chased him to enter their names for
the various events. “Not now, go, go, go, later, eh go away, man,”
he fended them off as he rushed here and there ensuring the
arrangements for the morning assembly were in order. Rekha Ma’am,
the other sports instructor, watched the hubbub happily. Unlike
Jacob Sir, she never got hassled, but the students still loved him
more because he was so full of life and always willing to go the
extra mile for the gifted players. You could request him to stay
back till 8pm before a big competition, and he would not say
no.
    Class 6 was in the
junior group. The students had won a lot of medals at the head of
the sub-junior group the previous year but this time they had to
fight off competition from class 7. There was a beeline for the
races—100 metres, 200 metres, 400 metres hurdles and 800 metres,
and 4x400 metres relay—with most names coming for the 100-metre
dash. Fewer students opted for the jumps—long jump and high
jump—and fewer still for the unfamiliar throws—shot put and
discus.
    Manu said he
didn’t care to run (he had come close to winning a ‘frog race’ in
KG, but having lost it he had developed a strong dislike for races)
or jump (because the clothes got all muddy. If Rekha Ma’am
compelled him to do a long jump, he deliberately landed on his feet
to keep the seat of his trousers clean). And of the throws he said
they were for the Neanderthals (he had found the word while
lucky-dipping through the Encyclopaedia Britannica to show off in
front of his class). “Won’t you participate in anything?” Samar
asked him hopefully as he wasn’t the sporty type himself.
“Actually, genius, I will this time,” said Manu to his friend, “I
intend to win the cycle race this year”.
    The cycle race was
very much the alpha-boy event of the annual meet. It was always the
finale and every show-off, every stud-in-the-making huffed and
puffed through it. But it was open to students only after class 5,
and