A Contrast to Yellow

I was never a very athletic person. Sure, I used to like playing outside, but I wasn't a sports-lover as such. I preferred sitting inside and reading books. I never really specialised in any sport, but I was good enough to be taken seriously. I knew swimming, tennis, basketball, though I was never an expert at any of them. And I was hopeless at stamina and flexibility.

I guess that's why I never even really tried to be good at it either. I just never felt it important. I valued academics over athletics. It never troubled me that I was not very nicely built, or strong or burly. But there was one thing that did trouble me often.

In my school, we had something called the Presidential Fitness Award. It was held at the end of every school year. It was basically a series of tests for all students testing their stamina, strength, endurance and flexibility. According to your age and gender, they classified you as Participant or National.

One boy and one girl from the school were honored with the Presidential award, the highest level you could get. You had to pass certain limits in each category to get each badge. Presidential was hardest to get.

So when the week for the Presidential Fitness arrived, I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about it. All my friends were, because all of them always got National. Me and two or three others from my class came under Participant. I'll admit, I was jealous. I had always kind of hoped to get national one day, but I never really gave it a second thought. It would be nice, I reflected, to see a perfect red badge on my desk for everyone to see. It would be a change to the boring yellowness of the Participant badge, that I had gotten used to.

But that year, in fifth grade, things were different. It was my last year at this school, and, I realized, my last chance to really try and get National. But even that thought didn't immediately spur me to success.

The first test was the endurance run. We had to run about a mile, eight laps around the field, in the shortest amount of time. If you made it in eleven minutes, congratulations, you made it to Nationals. I didn't even bother to find out the time limit for Presidential. The test started, and I started out pretty good, at an average pace.

But after about one lap, my pace started to slow down. I started getting tired, out of breath, and felt like walking. But somehow, somewhere, I felt a nagging urge to keep going. I suddenly increased my pace then slowed down a bit to make it feel as if I was going slower. Every lap I covered, I said to myself "only one more to go!" and thus, I completed eight. Nonstop. Without a pause. I just kept running.

And to my utmost wonder, I had passed the mark for Nationals. The endurance run was one of the tests I feared most, and I had aced it. Somehow, that boosted my confidence sky high, and it was after this incident that I truly and wholly, with all my heart, strove to get Nationals.

The next few tests went as a blur. I completed the shuttle run with neck-breaking speed, did all the push ups I could until my arms practically shattered and did so many cur ups that my stomach muscles screamed in pain. But I did it. I aced all those tests. Now I truly had a chance at Nationals.

Bu the last and final test loomed over me mockingly, the one reason I couldn't get to Nationals. The V-stretch. Basically, we had to sit with our feet stretched out in V shape with a distance of two feet between our two feet. Then we had to stretch. That's right, we had to stretch as much as we could past our ankles. The mark for Nationals? Three inches. Three lousy inches. And how much could I make? negative one. negative one. I could so pass this baby, right? Of course not.

That night I sat down on the floor of my room and practiced for hours. I stretched and stretched until I was positive that I couldn't stretch any more. We went to my friend's house. I stretched there. We went to the park. I sat on the tanbark and stretched. I had to do this, it had become a mania for me.

The next day, I was shaking with anticipation and apprehension. Last night's practice had been fruitful; I could make it to three inches. The trick was to be able to hold it there for three seconds. In that particular, ability, I lacked.

In the few precious minutes we had before the test, me and my friends tried to squeeze in as much practice as we could, using our fingers to measure out three inches. Even through all the last minute preparations, I still didn't feel much better. And as I sat on the mat and readied myself, I reflected, for a split second, on all of the events of the past few days. Well, I though as I eyed the marking for three inches, at least you'll know you tried.

Believe me, as I looked at the markings, I had never realised how truly large one inch was. The whistle blew, and, like all the other times at home when I practiced, I raised my hands, threw all my body weight flat on the ground, and stretched. And when the whistle for three seconds blew, you could say that I was the happiest person on earth.

I didn't get to go up on stage to receive the National award since I was already in India by the time the award ceremony was arranged. But I was equally happy when I got the mailed certificate along with my perfect new badge. As I kept it along with the rest of my battered, yellow Participant badges, I thought to myself, the redness of my new badge was such a contrast to the fading yellow of my old ones. And as I sit here writing this story, I only have to glance up to see the badge, gleaming proudly on my desk, looking just as red and perfect as it did, four years ago, in my dreams.

Inside The Glass Dome

'Gather here everyone

the show will begin soon

said the man at the ticket booth

beneath the silver moon

And I was standing in the crowd

sandwiched in the middle

thoguh to the colossal stadium,

our pack, it looked quite little

Today was the day, the significant day

for which with due respect

the world had much looked forward to

thus all were posh and decked

And people poured like grains of sand

women, child and all

men from all across the world

were gathered in that hall

And finally the curtains rolled

the drums did loudly beat

as the world watched expectantly

clutching to their seat

Inside the tiny dome of glass

it stood there, tall and lean

its body was of golden white

and crowned with freshly green

So brittle it looked, they held their breath

and necks craned to see

a spectacle that stood alone

alas, the Earth's last tree

From The Bookworm's Desk

Who says that non-Americans can't write good books in English? Everyone has the mindset that all those English books you read are written either by an American, or British. I admit, even I used to think that way. But I've learned over the past few years that you don't have to be born English to write good English fantasy novels.

I recently read a book by an Indian man named Samit Basu. It is a series of three books called the GameWorld Trilogy. I immediately fell in love with it, and you seriously can not compare his work to anyone else's. He wrote the books in English, but a lot of the names and concepts are derived from Indian mythology, beliefs and are overall Indian in origin. His work brings out the true meaning of utilising your resources. He had expertly woven Indian traditions with the basic lifestyles of fictional fantasy characters to create something very different, and also very fun to read.

The story idea is also very original, and I really liked it. It's not your average save-the-world-from-the-bad-guy story. One major point that the author has tried to emphasise is that a villain in not necessarily always evil. It depends on the way you look at things. From one side, the victim feels the villain to be the bad guy. But for the villain, he's only doing what he thinks is right. For example, in the usual cat-chases-mouse stories of Tom and Jerry, Tom is always looked upon as the villain who tries to get rid of Jerry in the most cruel ways possible. But from Tom's point of view, he is only trying to do his duty to his mistress and secure his own survival by eradicating the pesky mouse.

Samit Basu's tale is extremely colourful, with humour on every page. He has combined various extremely popular stories like those of Alice in Wonderland, Robin Hood and also those of Indian and Greek mythology to get a fresh and very original piece of work. I thoroughly enjoyed reading his stories and I would definitely recommend them to all those who thrive on fantasy fiction.