A twist in the tale

The sad, grey clouds of defeat must part to reveal streaks of cheerful sunshine...

This is the true story. It’s about an event that took place many years ago when I was a little girl. Though it may seem a bit far-fetched, please don’t disbelieve me, for episodes far stranger than this occur in hidden corners of our world! 

The day I lost my first story-writing competition dawned just like any other. But to my 12-year-old eyes, the very ground I walked on seemed to quiver with quiet sobs. 

I had waited impatiently for the Literary Week since the beginning of the school year. I had always admired those talented students who boldly participated in various events and won recognition for their efforts. How wrong I had been to believe that I was equally gifted! I had lost the only competition I had signed up for – story-writing. Had my story not even been worth a consolation prize, I wondered.

“It’s not the end of the world,” smiled Naz when our paths crossed during lunch-break.Naz is my elder sister, an extremely talented orator, who has consistently won competitions since her early years in school.

 “Is that a standard line for comforting black sheep?”

“Losing a competition doesn’t make anyone a black sheep, Zee!” said Naz sternly. “There is always next year.”

 “And two more years after next. That’s a whole lifetime of opportunities, sis,” I replied, looking the other way. I became shame-faced almost immediately. Naz was a wonderful big sister. She didn’t deserve sarcastic jabs right before her own ‘Spin-a-Story’ competition.

I swung back with an apology, but Naz was already striding down the corridor, out of earshot. I hurried after her. Naz disappeared into the teachers’ room and the curtain closed behind her. Time ticked by, rapidly. The competition was scheduled to begin soon after lunch, which meant another 10 minutes. What errand could have brought her here, now? Praying she would make it to the venue on time, I jogged across the playfield towards the auditorium.

The auditorium was filled to capacity. Two microphones stood on the stage floor for the contestants. Alka, my best friend, had saved me a seat. The sad, grey clouds of my recent defeat scattered, and I raced through the rows of chairs towards her.

Radhika Ma’m came on stage to flag off the competition. She introduced each participant as they came in with a two-sentence teaser about the stories they would be sharing. I loved listening to stories even more than writing them! 

There was an emotional narration of Saki’s ‘Dusk’ and a vibrant re-telling of Wilde’s ‘The Selfish Giant’, which touched me deeply. One contestant even had the courage to narrate ‘Red Riding Hood’, much to everybody’s amusement!

My sister came in at No 7. Seeing her on stage made me feel utterly alone in the crowded auditorium. I knew she would win. She always did. But this time our friends would view her victory in sharp contrast to my failure.

Naz began by apologising to the judges and the audience. “There has been a last-minute change in the story that I am going to narrate,” she said. “And both story and author, though not famous, are very close to my heart.”

Naz took a deep breath and began. She spoke of a small seaside village and the protagonists – a golden eagle and a fisherman’s son. The setting and characters sounded familiar. Naz continued. She raised and lowered her voice, modulating the pitch. She paced the stage with a look that bore into everyone’s heart. The audience drank in her every word. She described the friendship between the eagle and the boy; she explained how the boy lost his way in the hills one evening and how the eagle came to his rescue. I listened to her words with deepening shock. Yes, this was neither a famous story, nor did it belong to a famous author. It belonged to me.

The story ended. With Naz’s special talent for story telling, my failed story had taken on a life of its own. For a second or two, all was quiet. Then, the audience broke into thunderous applause.

Naz won the third prize that day. When the judges put the medal around her neck and handed her the certificate, Naz asked them for a moment at the microphone. 

“Zee, this prize belongs to you as much as it does to me. Come on stage, please!”

Acutely aware of the sea of faces looking at me, I walked up the stage and stood beside her. Naz hugged me. “You risked your prize-winning record for me,” I whispered into her ear. “You could have lost.” 

“But I didn’t. Now, I need to tell the audience what’s going on,” smiled Naz. Facing the crowd, she gave me credit for the story and told them how I had lost the story-writing competition. There was another round of enthusiastic applause. And this time, I knew they were cheering for me!