चकमक

They called her ‘Fats’ , although her name was Fatima. And she wasn’t even fat. At least, not in that nice, pudgy way that makes little girls look adorable to adults. She wasn’t adorable or sweet, or anything like the sugar and spice and everything nice that little girls are supposedly made of. In fact, she was BAD. Bad in big, bold, capital letters. She was a fighter and had been so ever since she came to the Home as a four year old orphan. She’d been in another home before that. She’d been left there, at the doorstep – abandoned by the mother no one would ever know. That orphanage looked after infants. Now, at four, she was considered old enough to move to a new environment. She’d never been adopted as some of the other babies had. She hated the new Home from her first day there. She perceived a grayness that filled her with dismay. The forced cheerfulness of the care-mothers and nurses turned to bile inside her and they soon became wary of her sullen, brooding eyes. Never kno...

Now that her nightly ritual had been forcibly brought to a halt, Fatima just had to make the most of the allotted games periods. She had never allowed herself to participate wholeheartedly and now she stood on the outskirts of the action, watching her classmates through brooding eye, wondering which game she should join. And more important and infinitely more difficult, was how she would join it. “Watch out, stupid!” A scream broke into her thoughts. Suddenly she was conscious of people screaming at her. A flash of silver whistled past her face and she watched in shocked amazement as the wooden pole slithered to a halt just beyond her. Almost in a trance, she bent down and picked up the pole and gingerly fingered the sharply pointed end. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?” Mrs. Whitbread, the games teacher grabbed the girl by the shoulders and turned her around. “No, no…” Fatima stuttered, still holding onto the pole. “What an idiot you are Fats,” hissed a g...

The warden pursed her lips in astonishment at the abrupt, instant reply. She gathered herself up, “And why, may I ask, do you feel it’s not enough?” No reply. Fatima just stared steadily at the spot beyond that right ear. “Hmmm?” asked the warden, again involuntarily glancing over her shoulder to ascertain what it was that this unsettling girl was staring at. Answers whirled through Fatima’s head. A part of her wanted to tell of her love for running. How it was the only time she felt free. Really, really free. She wanted to tell of her love for true solitude. She wanted, so desperately needed, to tell of the pain she felt when the girls sniggered, at the humiliation of them whispering, “Shhh! Here come Fats to bite your tongue out!” Of the boys who taunted her of being a half boy half girl. She had so much boiling up inside her. But she stood her ground. She held her silence. Biting back her words of hurt. Fighting back the tears that threatened to break loose and sh...

The children too were only too willing to consider the turn of events in the darkest possible way. “It’s all a part of her secret rituals, y’know. Throwing the lance, spearing unsuspecting victims.” “Of all the sports there are, isn’t it strange that she chose the most medieval of them all?” they sniggered. But Fatima turned her back on the gossip as she showed up for the first practice session. Mrs. Whitbread straightaway noticed the fierce concentration with which the girl applied herself. Her eyebrows knitted together, her jaw pulsing, she looked and listened with keen interest as the teacher taught her how to grip the javelin, how to support it on her finger, how to balance her body before the run up. How to brace herself for the throw.   The grip. The run. The leaning back and then – the throw. Fatima hopped on one leg, arm extended for balance and a thrill shot through her as the javelin soared, zinging through the air. And landed with a perfect TCHACK! Steel...

Now that her nightly ritual had been forcibly brought to a halt, Fatima just had to make the most of the allotted games periods. She had never allowed herself to participate wholeheartedly and now she stood on the outskirts of the action, watching her classmates through brooding eye, wondering which game she should join. And more important and infinitely more difficult, was how she would join it. “Watch out, stupid!” A scream broke into her thoughts. Suddenly she was conscious of people screaming at her. A flash of silver whistled past her face and she watched in shocked amazement as the wooden pole slithered to a halt just beyond her. Almost in a trance, she bent down and picked up the pole and gingerly fingered the sharply pointed end. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?” Mrs. Whitbread, the games teacher grabbed the girl by the shoulders and turned her around. “No, no…” Fatima stuttered, still holding onto the pole. “What an idiot you are Fats,” hissed ...