Racing to the Medals.

Perspiration trickled down my right underarm and briefly I recalled confiding in Hana about this terrible one underarm sweating oddity. I was reassured that this was a definite Dinnie trait...nerve sweats...skeptical as I was, I allowed myself to be consoled.

My red t-shirt soaking wet, but totally ignored, as I focused furiously on my 3 year old son taking his place at the starting line. Flanking his right, was a tall black boy with intimidating looking legs, on his left was a rather small and sparrow like child. This was that life defining race.

The sports arena was a mess. Children loitering about demanding ice lollies. Teachers hollering for kids to stay at the starting line. "Wait...wait!!!! OKaaaaaay Gooooooo!"

The three children stayed at the starting line. "Runnnnn!"

The three children looked at each other.

I heard a mommy shout, "Taufik run! Run! Runnnnnnnnnn". To my horror it was my voice bellowing out the command.

Taufik shot off, big smile on his face as he turns to smile at me. "Watch where you are going!!! Run! Faster! Fasterrrrr!"

The other two kids bolted after him, the black boy legs flipping to the back (was he skipping happily? What is he? Little Red Riding Hood?) his chest thrusted forward, legs scissoring back quite cheerfully. He didn't quite know which way to go, I thought with satisfaction.

I turned back to my son, he was first...and horrors of horror, he was veering away from the finishing line, that treasured red ribbon, and headed for his teacher. "No! Not there. Taufik! Taaaaufiiiiiik!" I shrieked.

Black boy, Skippy the Kangaroo was following Taufik like a lemming, and he too headed for the arms of teacher Raihana. Two assistant teachers that were holding the finishing line ribbon got into action, "Here this way! This way!" Taufik executes a corner baring, Skippy follows suit, but that third child, that small sparrow like child, sashayed quietly and correctly to the finishing line
My son came in second, I was inconsolable. Skippy was happy to be third.

When they gave out the medals, they made an incongruous picture. The smallest child first, and the biggest child last. My son slept with his two medals (he won the water relay race), hugged me with his two arms around my neck and said, "Mommy, I am a winner!!!"

p.s. Pictures of the three boys will be uploaded tomorrow night. For now, I am dog tired, could be the excessive sweating, you think?

The Torch Debacle

It was sports day at Taufik’s school, and he was on the red team, gleefully I dressed up in red t-shirt, Hidayah, reluctantly, in her red track pants and Inaaya, in red corduroys. And we sat loyally in the red bleachers.

The principal of this beautiful and well equipped school is Mr. Husni, a distinguished and smouldering, dark Jordanian debonair. In his thick accented voice he urged the children to greater heights of sportsmanship and fair play, while the younger kids bawled, scratched, and twittered away from their designated positions on the tracks. One particular loud child was bawling his head rather wildly.

If they could, they would have had the tune of “One Moment in Time” sung by Whitney Houston blaring out mightily to capture that Olympian spirit. Desperately though, they resorted to a semblance of it by including in the itinerary ‘Lighting of Da Torch’. This, I was eager to witness. I was pretty sure that the testosterone pumped Filipino coach, who was huffing and puffing self-importantly next to Mr. Husni was very much behind this.

A moving speech by Mr. Husni to a large crowd of terribly bored children and puzzled non-English speaking parents led to the lighting of the torch by a rather gargantuan dark and shiny Indian child. He headed off with the torch, eager to pass that treasured lamp to the next child. Unfortunately the WHOLE torch went on fire. With wide gawping eyes I watched what this massive yet desperate child would do next. He lumbered his body as fast as he could, clutching the torch as if his live depended on it, but the flames were already licking his fingers . He dropped the hot torch to the ground, where it lay sputtering. He paused, looked at the silent crowd, the worried principal and decided to pick the cursed thing up, burning hot or not, and flung it to the next waiting child.

He was a little imp and had caught it in his hands, dark ashes flew into his face and eyes; undeterred and undaunted he headed off blindly to the next child. At this point, the torch resembled a black ominous cone that was merely spitting out pathetic sparks.

I was laughing hysterically to the horror of more noble parents. Hidayah giggled silently like a mad mute, restraining herself, possessing a greater understanding that others may simply fail to see the funny side of this great torch debacle.

Finally the torch aka That Black Lump, cooled and fireless, was in the hands of the last child. The muscle packed Filipino coach heroically stepped in mid-run to light the dead torch with his lighter. He smiled rather self assuredly, but despite several sharp flicks of his thumb, the torch remained... dark, dead, and uninterested.

Drastic measures were called for, and through my tears I saw his hand grabbing a bottle of kerosene (the child in the meanwhile was struggling on towards the principal, who was now five steps away from him), he poured kerosene recklessly onto the torch and set it to light.
It burst into flames, oh God I thought, as the principal snatched the torch from the child’s shaking hands. Cool as a cucumber, dignified as Dame Judi Dench, Mr. Husni held the torch with a great big smile…then the smile faltered as the torch - the WHOLE torch - went alight, burning bright I might add. Holding the torch delicately upside down, fingers being singed by large aggressive flames, our dear principal bravely held on as he attempted to light the big terracotta pot.

Tears of laughter sputtered to a stop as I hazarded his next move.

Without much further ado, the principal flung, disgustedly, the WHOLE torch into that dratted pot and left it to burn itself to oblivion.

As for Hidayah and I, our reward for the sniggles that sometimes bordered raucous laughter, was the black smoke billowing direcly onto our faces and eyes, the putrid smell of the torch’s burning flesh, as the fire consumed it. Truly it was never meant to be.
As the smoke enveloped us, we realised it was time to abandon ship, loyal or not, we left the red team bleachers with torch ashes clinging to our red outfit.

All I can say is, ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

p.s. Taufik won medals for the first time in his young life. Hooray!