I Kissed A Girl In My Class by Abhilash Gaur Read Free Book Online Page B

rage he flung the
cycle on the ground and lay down near the dog shielding his eyes
with both forearms. Did Manu cry? Who knows? No human eye saw him,
and the dog had sworn itself to secrecy.
    “How’s the cycle?”
Papa asked Manu when he got home.
    “Horrid.”
    Ma, who had
worried through the afternoon, lost her cool at this retort. “Where
have you been? And don’t lie, I know you were not in the campus.
Sharad told me.”
    “That Sharad, who
does he think he is?” Manu hated Sharad that moment. “Just because
he has a better cycle, he thinks he is a better cyclist!”
    Papa sensed
something amiss and motioned to Ma to be quiet. “Why, didn’t you
get your cycle fixed in the afternoon? I just paid the mechanic a
princely 150 rupees. Show me what he has done to your cycle.”
    This sign of
involvement was just what Manu needed and he told Papa everything
that had happened since the morning once they were out of Ma’s
hearing. “Tomorrow morning,” said Papa, “I want to see your lap
timings. Get up early and you can sprint around the block. It’s not
a great cycle, son, I know, but YOU are a GREAT cyclist. You can
even out whatever advantage the others have. Believe me.”
    ***

11. With Sweat
And Blood
    Manu hardly
slept that night but he wasn’t tired or dull or sleepy or any of
those other things people feel in the books after sleepless nights.
He was eagerly waiting for the morning, and jumped out of bed as
soon as he heard Ma stir. She was always the first to rise. She saw
his eager, clear-eyed look and was relieved. “Milk?” she said. “In
a minute, Ma, I will brush and be with you.”
    He had hot milk
with an extra spoonful of Bournvita while sitting on the kitchen
counter. Afterwards, he dashed off downstairs to clean the bike. Ma
found him a completely changed person that morning. He was running
up and down the stairs. After cleaning the cycle he came up for
grease, and then for polish, till Papa warned him that he would be
too tired to race if he kept up like this. So, Manu had his bath
and told Ma he would breakfast after the time trial with Papa.
    Only the milkmen
and paperboys were out at that hour. In those days of cheap petrol,
the milkmen in Chandigarh used to ride Enfield Bullet bikes with
massive drums slung on either side. Those drums also served as
side-stands for the hefty bikes.
    Manu pedalled
furiously round their house block that measured about 100 metres on
one side. One loop around it was longer than the school’s 200m
running track, but since it was a bitumen road the cycle went
faster than it would on the mud track of the playground. However,
the right-angled turns at the corners of the block forced Manu to
slow down and added a few seconds to his time. So, all things
considered, his timing on the block gave a fair estimate of his
performance on the track.
    Every time he
passed Papa, Manu looked for a sign. He was pedalling in a standing
position, swinging the cycle from side to side, and going as fast
as he could. His brow was moist and his throat dry. Papa saw all of
that and was concerned. He realized that the cycle was just not
made for racing, and Manu’s timing—three minutes for five laps or
roughly 1,200 metres—was not fast enough for a medal. He would have
gladly bought Manu a new cycle that day but he had promised to pay
for a relative’s treatment and didn’t have spare cash that
month.
    “Was I good,
Papa?” Manu asked hopefully after the run.
    “You were superb,”
Papa said, which was partly true because Manu had put his heart
into the sprint. “Just don’t swing the bike so much, you might
fall. Now run upstairs and eat something.”
    Manu cycled fast
to school and back home but didn’t race Sharad to avoid any more
pain before the actual race. He practised in the evening, and Papa
checked his timing every morning. It improved a little every day
and Papa noted it down in a diary to make Manu happy, but he knew
in his heart that a medal finish was