They Called Her ‘Fats’- Paro Anand (Part 7)
“Come
on in, Fatima,” she said in a voice that exuded more confidence than she felt.
And then she was there. Standing there, glowering.
“Well?”
she demanded, standing in the open doorway, arms akimbo, “what is it that we
need to talk about?”
“Why
don’t you shut the door and come sit down?” the teacher said.
But
the girl shook her head, holding the door ajar, ready to bolt, “No, there’s no
need. This isn’t going to take long.”
“As
you like. Fatima, I was wondering, would you like to take special javelin
lessons. Say in the evenings?”
“Why?”
The
older woman smiled, “why – what?”
“Why
should I want special sessions?” Fatima said as though ‘special’ was a
dirty, forbidden world.
“Well,
two reasons, I think. One, I believe you could be very good at it.”
“And
number two?”
Margaret
suppressed her smile; there was something so sweet in Fatima’s belligerence.
“For
reasons best known to yourself, Fatima, you don’t seem to get o with a lot of
others. Anyway, that’s not my concern, really, but maybe you’d prefer to
practice on your own – er - with me, of course, if you don’t mind…” and she
laughed out aloud. She saw the brief look of pleasure that flickered across the
child’s face, although she was silent.
“Alright,
that’s settled then. I’ll meet you this evening at five.” The teacher was
almost out of the door before she heard it.
“Thank
you,” a tiny voice. Mrs. Whitbread turned and smiled a little smile in silent
acknowledgement. Perhaps of a new bond.
Later
that night, at home with her husband and sons, Mrs. Whitbread talked of young
Fatima. It was one of the few times that she discussed the orphanage children
with her family. They too now sensed that it was with special feeling that she
spoke of this girl. And they were to hear a lot more of her.
Fatima
trained hard under her mentor’s tutelage. She never complained of being tired.
She never lost focus or enthusiasm. Day by day, Mrs. Whitbread came to realize
that she had a very special athlete in her care.
“You
know, Fatima,” said Mrs. Whitbread one evening as they wiped the sweat of their
hour of weight training off their faces. “In many countries, you wouldn’t even
have been allowed to train for javelin.”
“Why
not, what’s wrong with me?”
“Your
height, you know. You’re just five feet four inches tall. And if you ever get
to compete at an international level, you’ll be at a disadvantage against your
opponents who’d be inevitably taller and stronger.”
Fatima
listened, then silently considered. Then she straightened up and said, “I’ll
compete at international levels, Mrs. Whitbread. I may not be tall, but I’ll
make myself stronger, and I’ll beat the competition!” The twitching of that
determined jaw line fired the teacher’s imagination and she thought that it
might well be so.
Margaret
obtained special permission from the teachers and warden who were all secretly
(even overtly) relieved to have less of this child to deal with. The games
teacher also requested her own family’s indulgence for her frequent absences
and late nights. Seeing how charged up with enthusiasm she was, they didn’t
have the heart to refuse her.
Fatima’s
training became more intense and rigorous. What she lacked in height had to be
made up in sheer power and that meant building up the right muscles in the right
places. The results soon became apparent. As she packed more power behind each
throw, the javelin sliced through the air further and further. And now Fatima
didn’t bother to hide her exultation.
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