The Race

I often think that our identity is one of the most important aspects of our existence. At birth, we are given a name which we carry till our death; unless of course, we decide to change it. Even changing our name is part of our effort to establish our identity. It is interesting and amusing that we take our identities so seriously and do so much to protect and preserve it.

We lived in a rented room atop a two-storeyed DDA building in Safdurjung Enclave. Such tenements are called ‘Barsati’ in Delhi. They consist of a single room with a small partition wall that made for the kitchen. Safdarjung enclave is an upmarket location and apart from the standard DDA flats, there were independent bungalows and other premium multi-storey buildings where the rich lived. We were a lower-middle-class.

There was a large playground right in the middle, surrounded by houses. This playground was used by all for various purposes. The children played there every day. During festivals like Durga Pooja, events were organised and once in a while, there were screenings of popular movies in Hindi and other regional languages. 

One conflict we all often face is how do we establish ourselves? A bride grapples with this problem when she enters her husband’s home after marriage. A new employee in an office does his best to get noticed. A teacher tries to establish his supremacy over the students. A writer impresses with his words. Each one of these is trying to establish themselves as the best and most efficient.

This story is about one such successful struggle. I told you that I was new to Delhi and my entire life had changed now. I was out of my comfort zone, I knew no one, I did not speak Hindi. I was dark and skinny. I felt like an alien amongst the fair-skinned Punjabi’s. I was human after all and like any child, I wished to be part of the society in my neighbourhood. I wished to play with the other boys but was too shy to approach them. I let myself be intimidated by the fact that I was a stranger. 

The dark, skinny boy amused them. For many days, I would come out to the ground and just sit or stand at the fringes, watching them play. I wished someone would talk to me in my language and be friends with me. They would see me there, clapping when something thrilling happened. Or put my hands over my head in disappointment when someone failed. They would watch all my reactions in total amusement. 

Delhi kids are well-groomed. They are made to wear suitable footwear for play, a pair of hunters or canvass shoes. I wore rubber slippers which in Delhi people use as bathroom slippers. The red rubber straps stood in stark contrast against my dark skin. 

Finally, curiosity got the better of the Delhi kids and they took the initiative, outgoing as they are, to accost the “Madrasi” alien. They shook my hands and invited me to join a race they were planning to hold. This could have been a genuine gesture of friendship or a trap for me. I was apprehensive but there was no way I would not take up this opportunity.

I could not understand what they spoke and it always seemed to me that they were all making fun of me. I felt uneasy and wanted to run away from them, but the opportunity to run the race was too inviting to be declined. I, therefore, mustered the courage, even though I could feel my heart racing.

The chances of winning the race were remote. No one gave me any chance including myself. As the seven contestants lined up for the race, the referee came up for inspection, loudly announcing rules of the race. He stopped and pointed at my footwear. Was I going to run with these slippers on? I would most likely slip and fall and the straps would break. I kicked off the slippers, preferring to run barefoot. A round of laughter followed.

The race began. I ran as if my life depended on it. This was not just a race. I was fighting for recognition and was deeply aware of the humiliation if I did not put in a creditable performance. I gathered speed and soon was blindly running. I could just about feel the ground beneath with stones and sharp objects. For a while I felt my feet burning up with pain, then everything was a blur. I became totally oblivious of other contestants, afraid to look anywhere but down. At one stage, I was not even aware of the ground.

The race was at its climax when I felt someone pushing me from behind. I regained my balance somehow and sped on. It happened again, and this time I fell sprawling on the ground. The race was over and the shouting and cheering had begun. I was blind with rage and humiliation and was crying profusely. Someone pointed out to a contestant and shouted he had pushed the Madrasi boy during the race. I sprang up like a wounded tiger and pounced at the defaulter. The frail Madrasi was punching and kicking his foe like mad. 

The ugly turn of events was soon ended with the other boys tearing us apart. They were asking me to cool down. I had won the race, they said, despite the cheater trying to knock me down. I had fallen, yes, but only after crossing the winning line. 

The boy who cheated was being berated by all for his shameful act. I gathered that he was the local champion and a bully whom everyone was afraid of. I had not only beat him in the race but had also proved that despite my skinny frame I was a tiger who was afraid of none.

It was a double victory for the Madrasi. The Delhi kids were in awe of his feat. I had finally won my place amongst the boys and now on I was not just a dark-skinned Madrasi. I was a local hero who had won their acceptance with his performance and courage. I was now well and truly a Delhiite.