by Parth Pandya
People could have been forgiven for believing that there was a halo over Shreyas’s head. Here was a schoolboy destined for great successes. His friends would chant his name, ‘Shreyas, Shreyas’ (set to the tune of ‘Sachin, Sachin’) when he would play cricket. A six needed of one ball – Shreyas delivered. A wicket needed to tilt the balance – just bring on Shreyas. An elocution competition is afoot – no one speaks as well as Shreyas. A song needs to be sung at assembly – let loose the dulcet tones of Shreyas. He was omnipotent and multi-talented. His place as a legend in his school was assured until the fateful day when Shreyas’s stoic balance deserted him. He had invited the jealousy of Anish, who had grown tired of watching the girls in his class call go ‘Shreeeeyaaaas’ longingly just to get his attention.
It was a wet morning at school. The children were stranded in their classrooms, asked to ‘do whatever you want, just be quiet’ by their teacher. It was a potent form of torture and the restless masses hushed and whispered and giggled and played games on their desks to pass the time. The decibel level was within the teacher’s comfort zone and so she merrily ignored them, sinking her heart deep into the Mills and Boons novel she was reading, which in turn was hidden within a large magazine. After a while, she left the class to answer nature’s call and left who else but Shreyas in charge of it. Shreyas walked up to the front of the class and stood still. The quiet authority he exuded had most of the class in control. Most, not all, because Anish saw this as a perfect opportunity to do some harm.
“Hey Shreyas, catch,” and he tossed a paper ball the way of Shreyas.
Instinctively, the top athlete caught it, and threw it back at Anish. Sternly, he said, ‘Stop it. Don’t do this here’.
“Come on, Shreyas,” said Anish, mockingly, “are you afraid of being caught?”
Shreyas didn’t take the bait.
“I bet you can’t disobey rules. There are some things Shreyas can’t do after all.”
Shreyas clinched his fist. There was nothing he couldn’t do. Everyone had been telling him that all his life.
“What happened, Shreyas? Are you scared?”
Shreyas snapped, “Shut up, Anish. I am not scared of anything or anyone.”
“Then prove it Shreyas.”
Mischief gleamed in the eyes of Anish.
“Stand on the teacher’s desk on one leg and catch this ball again!” He paused for dramatic effect. “With one hand.”
This is the moment where Shreyas paid the price of his greatness. Where his capacity to do the impossible made him fall prey to the mind games being played with him.
Shreyas stood as instructed and Anish unfurled a throw like Indra shooting a bolt of lightning. Shreyas, standing in the pose of a yogi, moved with the assurance of one and caught the ball with one hand. The table beneath him shifted, slid forward, and disrupted his balance. He fell backwards. Fortunately for him, the teacher’s chair was there to break the fall. Unfortunately for him, the teacher had left her purse on it. If that was not enough, the teacher had left her house keys in the pocket as well. And to add insult to impending injury, the keys were jutting out and pointing skywards. Unto this set of keys arrived Shreyas’s rear end. It settled on them with force and soft tissue. Shreyas did not know what had hit him but he felt the full impact of his impalement.
The rest of the morning was a blur for him. There seemed to be a collection of voices all playing in the background, each overlapping the other, a mixture of laughter and concern, instructions from the doctor and the sobs of his mother, creaking of a stretcher and his own wails that seemed to override all else. Shreyas’s rear end was front and centre of his existence for the next few days, as the doctors went to town fixing that which was broken in him. His recovery was expected to happen over a few weeks and until then, he was to now carry a most unique accessory – a tyre. An inflated rubber tyre with the right circumference and the right air pressure would relieve any pressure that his area of injury would have gotten otherwise. Shreyas and his tyre were now one. He slung it on his shoulder like a lifeguard tending to the kids of rich people at a pool party. He gained four inches while sitting on it and causing the kids consternation by blocking their view. He gained a new last name – “Tyrewala” as the merciless hordes, led by Anish, chipped away at his confidence bit by bit. Medical science had let him down. Was there no inconspicuous contraption the doctor could have given him? Slowly, the invincible Shreyas was losing. The boy who could do no wrong started making mistakes, withdrawing into his shell. The unthinkable was about to happen. Shreyas was thinking of not standing for the head boy elections. What would have been a cakewalk for him now would be gifted to Anish on a tyre.
Shreyas sat all alone one evening. Alone – save his tyre, that is – on a chair in the balcony of his house. The world was going about its existence, unaware of the pain Shreyas felt. His grandfather ambled out slowly.
“I am surprised to find you here. I thought you’d be working tirelessly,” chuckled his grandfather, much to Shreyas’s horror.
Instinctively, Shreyas responded, “The joke’s inflated, Dada!” It was hard to be mad at the chirpy septuagenarian.
“Shreyas, with the tyre, you are on a roll!”
And so on and so forth they went, grandfather and grandson, exchanging puns. Shreyas could feel the colour returning to his cheeks. His lost mojo was finding its way back to him through the uplifting roads of wit.
The sun dipped below the horizon and it signalled that the two had to step back in to escape the mosquitoes.
“Shreyas, remember this. Find a way. There is always a way,” said his grandfather, sagely passing wisdom between generations in the most pithy manner possible.
Shreyas spent the evening mulling over it, walking around the room and tossing the tyre in his hand. Then, it hit him. He furiously started scribbling some ideas and felt a resurgence in his spirit. He would not allow this tyre to bring him down – the tyre was going to see him through.
Shreyas stood for the elections. His confidence restored, he walked into each classroom with the tyre in hand to make his case, his humour as effective as his arguments. Anish fought hard and dirty, but there was no stopping Shreyas. The elections came and the inevitable happened. Shreyas was victorious. His injury had healed and he no longer needed any aid. It now had pride of place in his house – hanging next to photographs of Sachin Tendulkar and Viswanathan Anand. From his pocket, he took out a voting slip that he had kept aside as a memento. Next to Shreyas’s name was his election symbol. It was a tyre.
