After I brought my hand down and wiped the blood off my palm, I realised I was holding my breath. The blood looked a strange dull-brown in the yellow light as it clotted on my palm. I don’t think anyone noticed the killing – the trucks droned by on the nearby highway; a faraway loudspeaker played an indistinct Hindi film song; a horn blared in the distance, and there was one lesser life on the planet.

 I hadn’t planned it. Nothing in the day had indicated that I would take a life before the day was over. I had woken up at four-thirty in the morning while it was still dark outside. I had been invited by a school to judge a poetry recitation competition and had been quite nervous about it, to tell the truth. “We’d like very much for you to recite some of your poems, too,” the lady from the school had said.

 I had figured it would not take more than half-an-hour to select the poems and think about how to judge the competition. But, why was I feeling so nervous? I thought about that for a while, lying in bed, staring into the darkness. Was it because I had to read out my poetry before an audience? I remembered the time when I had participated in a recitation competition in school. It was so long back, I had almost forgotten about it. Must’ve been twenty-five years ago? It was one of those memories that one is happy to forget, but memories, it seems, just lie in wait to ambush you.

 I remembered that I had been well-prepared for the elocution and everyone had expected me to finish among the top three. But when my turn came I simply gaped at the students and the judges, my mind a complete blank. If someone had asked me my name at that point of time I would have had to think really hard. The prompter, who sat right behind the contestants, read out the first sentence and I started out, but I couldn’t remember the next sentence. My mouth had gone dry and there had been a high-pitched whine in my ear. Even after twenty-five years I could still feel the shocked eyes in the hall looking at me. Afterwards, everyone had been sympathetic – don’t worry, these things happen – but I hadn’t been able to take to the stage ever again.

 As I lay in bed, I was surprised to find that I still remembered the face of the student who had been prompting, but I couldn’t recall his name. He used to be a fan of Hitler and would greet people by saying a sharp ‘Heil’ with a sharp click of the heels. I remembered ‘heiling’ him once near the water fountain just to make fun of him, but, funnily, he had been pleased and had responded with an enthusiastic ‘heil’ himself and had insisted that I have a drink before him. I wondered where he was now.

 The judging turned out to be quite simple. There were three of us judging the students and we were seated at different places in the hall. A teacher gave us a sheet that had the names of the students and the criteria for judging in neat columns – five points for memory, five for poise, ten for diction and ten for expression. “That should be easy,” I thought and marked the students. At first, I waited for them to finish their pieces, but after the first few I marked them mid-way. It’s easy to tell who’s good and who’s not. When there were about eight students remaining I began feeling uneasy. I shifted and squirmed in my wheelchair. It was a struggle to survive the last half-hour. As soon as the students finished, I excused myself saying that I had an urgent appointment to keep. It was true. I had to go to a studio to record voiceovers, but it was also true that I couldn’t bring myself to recite the poetry.

 On the way to the recording studio my thoughts drifted to the conversation in the principal’s office. The other two judges had been alumni of the school. I had been the only male and the only one not connected with the school. The conversation had centered around the unique culture of the school and how its children were encouraged to be ‘in touch with themselves.’ How they did so well in a variety of careers and how they didn’t have any pretence. Bull crap. It was like any other elitist school trying to be one-up on the competition. It would have been different if they had disabled children studying there. But there was no ramp and the doors to the toilets had been too narrow for my wheelchair. In my opinion, any school that doesn’t have room for students with disabilities has no business calling itself unique. Just like any person who works for himself all day but can’t find time to volunteer a few hours in a week for a cause (any cause) has no business calling himself successful. I don’t even think Sachin Tendulkar is very successful, when you look at the totality of the situation. He is an unmitigated environmental disaster. Imagine the number of people who switch on their TV sets when he’s on the crease. Imagine the number of advertisements he appears in and the amount of resources that go into making those ads. All that adds up to a lot of consumption. Consumption that is driven by building dams, cutting trees and burning fossil fuels. However much I like Sachin’s genius, I can’t shy away from the fact that he is bad for the environment. And to think of the number of products that he promotes and the resources needed to manufacture, market and distribute them. The mind boggles. Sachin might be a great performer but he puts too much pressure on the environment.

At the recording studio, a kid was facing performance pressure. Unfortunately he had many lines. He’d nod enthusiastically when we gave instructions and then repeat the lines the same way over and over, reading them out in a dull, flat tone. He also had problems saying the hindi ‘ra’. Instead of ‘doosara’, he kept saying ‘dooshya’.  Someone said, ‘don’t worry, it happens’. I suddenly felt really bad for the kid so I recited my poems to him. I guess I made such a mess of it that it brought a smile to his face. Come on, you can do it, I said to him. It’s just dialogues that you’ve practiced so many times before. “Heil Hitler, let’s crack it!” I said. He finally got the dialogues right.

 It was pretty late when I got home. I didn’t realise how tired I was till I lay down. The pain from my back spread over the whole body and the world suddenly seemed a very different place. I retreated in my silent cocoon to deal with the pain. When I awoke, it was already dark and I could hear the trucks going by on the highway. A loudspeaker was playing a song. I listened to it for a while, trying to identify the song, but it was all distorted. Then I sensed something near my face. I kept still. Very slowly, holding my breath, I slid my hand towards the lamp switch. I spotted it in the lamplight and brought my hand down in a flash. As I wiped the blood off my palm, I wondered what kind of a day the mosquito had had. I looked for it on my palm but there was no trace of it. Close