They Called Her ‘Fats’- Paro Anand (Part 6)

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Fatima heard his words. She bit down on her tongue to stop the retaliation that was in her throat. The hurt turned to acid in her stomach.

She began her run for the third time, this time without the mental preparation, without the ritual. As she released the spear, a muscle jarred through her shoulder like an electric shock. She didn’t need to look to know that the throw was no good. No comforting Tchak accompanied the landing of the javelin into the ground. It was a flat throw.

The same boy sniggered as she passed him. And, almost against her will, she lost control. Balling her hand into a fist, she flung a punch at him. He was down on the ground in an instant. The teacher was beside her, taking hold of her shoulders, pushing her gently, firmly away.
“No, Fatima, that’s enough now. Stop it. I said, stop it!”
“I’m sick of it,” the girl hissed with so much venom that Mrs. Whitbread was taken aback.

“Get him to the nurse’s room, inform his house warden.” The teacher instructed some of the other students as she held onto Fatima. The boy was not badly hurt, just winded, really.

“Sick! Sick! Sick! Sick! Sick!!!!” spat the girl.

“Hush now, shh, quiet, quiet…” soothed the teacher, hurrying Fatima away now. Fatima’s face was flushed, her eyes blazing with rage. The heat of her anger emanated from her as she allowed herself to be led away. 

But as they approached the empty common room, the girl baulked.
“No! Don’t bring me here to sweet talk me. I’m not interested. I don’t need your lip sympathy or moral lectures on being a good girl. I don’t need any confidantes, okay? Just leave me alone. I don’t need anyone. Anything! Ever!”

She struggled to be free, but the teacher still held her with strong hands. “I’m not here to sweet talk anybody. I don’t give out sympathy for free either. But I do think we ought to talk.” Her voice was firm, no nonsense. Fatima was forced to listen as she continued, “Look, Fatima, you’re too good at javelin; I can see it in just one morning. You’re too good to just throw it all away because someone made some stupid, irrelevant remark.” She saw she had the girl’s attention. She let go of her shoulders.
“Now, I’m going into the common room and I’ll wait five minutes. If you think we can talk like sensible human beings, you can come right in. If not…” she shrugged, leaving her sentence hanging in mid-air.

She went into the empty room and shut the door behind her. Here she closed her eyes and ran a hand over her face. She was surprised to find that her head hurt. She wanted so much to be able to open the door to this child’s mind and let some fresh air in. She had so much promise, but was also ever ready to press the self-destruct button in panic. Was there something that she, as a teacher, an older woman, a mother, could do?


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

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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
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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
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