SK padded across to the bathroom, it was 7 am. He looked into the mirror with bloodshot eyes and scratched his beard. The years had taken their toll but the last few months in the prison and the frenetic badminton he’d played had brought his strength and stamina back. This whole CWG trauma would dissipate over the months, now that he was out of prison. He had not expected to be consigned to Tihar Jail, but was it not the holy grail of Indian politics? Been there, done that, donned the striped pajamas! The Olympics opening ceremony beckoned and he intended to be there – the champagne, the caviar, his friends at the IOC, perchance Her Majesty…he was the Dark Knight and he would rise again!
He flicked a switch and the large screen on his wall came alive with a talking head reading the news. He caught his picture on TV and his head swam. The High Court was restraining him from attending the opening ceremony. The sports minister was lauding the court’s decision. His eyes turned to steel as bitterness gnawed at his intestines. To work for the party, for the nation, for madam – spend months in prison, corruption charges and now this injury to add to his insult. He could go to London anytime but he wanted to be at the opening ceremony. Bar him, will they – he would show these two bit politico-legals what mettle he was made of. He would attend every event of import at London and let’s see who had the last laugh!
SK sat comfortably on the deerskin mat and lit an incense stick. He was glad he had met Pundit Rambhajan decades back and the Pundit had taught him about body transportation. He would now use his powers of concentration and enter the Olympics through the body of another, oh how much fun this was going to be! He flicked the remote and the telly kicked into life again. He saw her majesty, what would it be like to see the opening ceremony through her eyes? He concentrated, his back was taut, his neck muscles bulged, he could almost smell her perfume but he felt a wall, he concentrated harder – he exhaled, looked like the MI5 had built a psychic wall around her, dash it. He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply, sensing his way around the Indian contingent, if he could transport himself now he could actually be at the Olympics march past. The contingent moved and he concentrated harder. Suddenly he was in the open, the wind was cool, the floodlights were lit and he was walking with the Indian contingent around the track, and that was when he realized that he was her.
Who would wear a red shirt and blue jeans to the opening ceremony? He waved wildly at the crowds, he had done it, he was here, he was waving at the Queen – what would the High Court think of this? Later he learnt that she was Madhura, a cast member at the opening ceremony, now the ultimate gatecrasher. Sebastian Coe laughed it off, Madhura never knew what got into her, but he knew – he had been in her, and he had been there and he would participate in the Olympics like never before! SK the super athlete, he would show them!
He wondered what it would feel like to win the Olympic Gold, and he had heard of Yelena Isinbaeva. She was as sure a thing as a sure thing could be. She would definitely win the Gold and if he could be her he would be on the podium. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Momentarily, he was in very short shorts and a bustier, a long pole in hand – the wind swished by as she took long loping strides and leapt. It was tragic, his bottom brushed the bar and she had to settle for silver. Later, Yelena told the press that she was confident she would win but at her last jump she felt heavier, slightly older. SK thought about the effect he had on people, grimaced and thought about the medal. He would still get that gold. Now what was that Jamaican called?
The games were almost at an end. Who should he be? He was confident that one of them would win the 100 meters, but would it be Yohan or Usain? Who should he be? He thought with the wiliness of an Indian politician, yes, the older man always won in the end. He concentrated hard on Usain’s rippling muscles and shortly opened his eyes at the starting block. The next 10 seconds went by in a blur – the starter’s gun, the sprint and there he was pointing his finger to the heavens telling the world that you cannot keep SK trapped for long, he was free, and he was Gold! It was magical, the medal hung heavily around his neck, Yohan congratulated him, he draped his shoulders with the Jamaican flag, women were blowing him kisses. He could get used to this and be this man, he thought.
Maybe it was that last wish but it had been three days and he was still trapped in Usain’s body. He sank back into the hotel bed, and rolled the mouthful of peach yogurt around his tongue. He felt good, strong, the adulation, the groupies – it had been marvelous but he wanted to go back to being an Indian politician. That was the best job in the world – he would try and return to his body again tonight.
Meanwhile, Bolt was going crazy with fear - was he going totally, insanely, crazy mad? He remembered himself at the starter block, focused, victory in sight and then poof! He was an old man in loose white cotton clothes being served cool buttermilk. Who was this Sureshji that everyone kept calling him? Why was he an old man in India instead of a Jamaican in London, and who in hell was CBI?
He wanted to kill himself – but maybe it was all a dream and he would wake up soon, covered in the rancid sweat of fear, but himself once more…The TV flickered on and he saw a man like himself preparing to run the relay finals. His nightmare continued!
He flicked a switch and the large screen on his wall came alive with a talking head reading the news. He caught his picture on TV and his head swam. The High Court was restraining him from attending the opening ceremony. The sports minister was lauding the court’s decision. His eyes turned to steel as bitterness gnawed at his intestines. To work for the party, for the nation, for madam – spend months in prison, corruption charges and now this injury to add to his insult. He could go to London anytime but he wanted to be at the opening ceremony. Bar him, will they – he would show these two bit politico-legals what mettle he was made of. He would attend every event of import at London and let’s see who had the last laugh!
SK sat comfortably on the deerskin mat and lit an incense stick. He was glad he had met Pundit Rambhajan decades back and the Pundit had taught him about body transportation. He would now use his powers of concentration and enter the Olympics through the body of another, oh how much fun this was going to be! He flicked the remote and the telly kicked into life again. He saw her majesty, what would it be like to see the opening ceremony through her eyes? He concentrated, his back was taut, his neck muscles bulged, he could almost smell her perfume but he felt a wall, he concentrated harder – he exhaled, looked like the MI5 had built a psychic wall around her, dash it. He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply, sensing his way around the Indian contingent, if he could transport himself now he could actually be at the Olympics march past. The contingent moved and he concentrated harder. Suddenly he was in the open, the wind was cool, the floodlights were lit and he was walking with the Indian contingent around the track, and that was when he realized that he was her.
Who would wear a red shirt and blue jeans to the opening ceremony? He waved wildly at the crowds, he had done it, he was here, he was waving at the Queen – what would the High Court think of this? Later he learnt that she was Madhura, a cast member at the opening ceremony, now the ultimate gatecrasher. Sebastian Coe laughed it off, Madhura never knew what got into her, but he knew – he had been in her, and he had been there and he would participate in the Olympics like never before! SK the super athlete, he would show them!
He wondered what it would feel like to win the Olympic Gold, and he had heard of Yelena Isinbaeva. She was as sure a thing as a sure thing could be. She would definitely win the Gold and if he could be her he would be on the podium. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Momentarily, he was in very short shorts and a bustier, a long pole in hand – the wind swished by as she took long loping strides and leapt. It was tragic, his bottom brushed the bar and she had to settle for silver. Later, Yelena told the press that she was confident she would win but at her last jump she felt heavier, slightly older. SK thought about the effect he had on people, grimaced and thought about the medal. He would still get that gold. Now what was that Jamaican called?
The games were almost at an end. Who should he be? He was confident that one of them would win the 100 meters, but would it be Yohan or Usain? Who should he be? He thought with the wiliness of an Indian politician, yes, the older man always won in the end. He concentrated hard on Usain’s rippling muscles and shortly opened his eyes at the starting block. The next 10 seconds went by in a blur – the starter’s gun, the sprint and there he was pointing his finger to the heavens telling the world that you cannot keep SK trapped for long, he was free, and he was Gold! It was magical, the medal hung heavily around his neck, Yohan congratulated him, he draped his shoulders with the Jamaican flag, women were blowing him kisses. He could get used to this and be this man, he thought.
Maybe it was that last wish but it had been three days and he was still trapped in Usain’s body. He sank back into the hotel bed, and rolled the mouthful of peach yogurt around his tongue. He felt good, strong, the adulation, the groupies – it had been marvelous but he wanted to go back to being an Indian politician. That was the best job in the world – he would try and return to his body again tonight.
Meanwhile, Bolt was going crazy with fear - was he going totally, insanely, crazy mad? He remembered himself at the starter block, focused, victory in sight and then poof! He was an old man in loose white cotton clothes being served cool buttermilk. Who was this Sureshji that everyone kept calling him? Why was he an old man in India instead of a Jamaican in London, and who in hell was CBI?
He wanted to kill himself – but maybe it was all a dream and he would wake up soon, covered in the rancid sweat of fear, but himself once more…The TV flickered on and he saw a man like himself preparing to run the relay finals. His nightmare continued!
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