They Called Her ‘Fats’- Paro Anand (Part 8)

-





The jibes and comments still came sporadically. Some girls passed comments that she was turning into a boy, the way her arms rippled with muscles. But they didn’t bother Fatima at all now. She was proud of her muscles. They were won after a lot of sweat and pain and effort. Gradually, seeing her go from one success to another, the comments turned to grudging admiration.

From a passing fancy now, the mystical javelin became an obsession with Fatima, now fourteen and bulging with biceps.

And Fatima too became an obsession with her games teacher. They would train two or three times a day and sometimes the girl would pack in an extra session by herself. She had learned, with her mentor’s help, not to let anyone’s comments about her, or her unfeminine appearance bother her. She loved the javelin and for that she needed those muscles. She wore them like a badge of honor.

One night, when Mrs. Whitbread couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice about Fatima’s unparalleled talent and her love for her, one of her sons suggested, “Why don’t we adopt her, Mom, you love her so much?’ said with so much conviction, not malice. The older woman smiled and looked at the rest of her family.

And so it happened. Fatima, the problem child, the disruptive influence, at the age of fourteen, finally got what most of us are born with, what we take for granted. At the age of fourteen, Fatima finally got a family and a surname to call her own.

And she went on to live up to that name and make her new-found family proud to have her in their midst.

Fatima Whitbread went on to win an Olympic bronze medal and later, in 1986, the World Championship, making five of the six longest throws in history and shattering the world record. Said she, “I stood on the victory stand and listened while they played my national anthem. I was tired and my arm ached, (from injections needed for an ailment she suffered from), but I had never felt better in my life!”

Long ago, a little news item on the sports page of a newspaper told me something of this incredible woman. Since then, I have tried to gather as much information about her as possible. The basic facts of this story are true, with some embellishments and additions to make the fabric of this bio-fiction. Let’s say, it’s conjecture in good faith.
Fatima Whitbread, we salute you.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

They Called Her ‘Fats’- Paro Anand (Part 1)

-
Image
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
Read more

They Called Her ‘Fats’- Paro Anand (Part 2)

-
Image
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
Read more

ज़मीं को जादू आता है - गुलज़ार

-
Image
ये मेरे बाग की मिट्टी में कुछ तो है ये जादुई ज़मीं है क्या? ज़मीं को जादू आता है! अगर अमरूद बीजूँ मैं, तो ये अमरुद देती है अगर जामुन की गुठली डालूं तो जामुन भी देती है करेला तो करेला ....निम्बू तो निम्बू! अगर मैं फूल माँगू तो गुलाबी फूल देती है मैं जो रंग दूँ उसे, वो रंग देती है  ये सारे रंग क्या उसने कहीं निचे छुपा रक्खे हैं मिट्टी में? बहुत खोदा मगर कुछ भी नहीं निकला.....! ज़मीं को जादू आता है! ज़मीं को जादू आता है बड़े करतब दिखाती है  ये लम्बे-लम्बे ऊँचे ताड़ के जब पेड़, ऊँगली पर उठाती है तो गिरने भी नहीं देती! हवाएं खुद हिलाती हैं, जमीं हिलने नहीं देती! मेरे हाथों से शर्बत, दूध, पानी  कुछ गिरे सब ठीक डीक जाती है ये कितना पानी पीती है! गटक जाती है जितना दो.. इसे लोटे से दो या बाल्टी से, या नल दिन भर खुला रख दो गज़ब है, पेट भरता ही नहीं इसका  सुना है ये नदी को भी छुपा लेती है अन्दर! ज़मीं को जादू आता है! यक़ीनन जादू आता है!! -गुलज़ार
Read more