Two Lyric Essays by Shome Dasgupta
Running Through My Head
In 1998, I placed second in the Louisiana cross country state meet for our school’s division. We were in northern Louisiana, Natchitoches, about two hours away from the warmer weather of Lafayette. It was a slow course, a cold but bright morning, and there was still mud from a recent rain. Just the night before, the team watched Prefontaine, a biographical movie about the record-setting runner. It was inspirational, and I was ready to run, full of anxious anticipation.
But as soon as the race started, I knew it wouldn’t be one of my usual runs. I could tell my pace was slower than all of my previous meets during that season, and I became more and more aware of my own breathing.
I found myself alone, not with a group of runners, where sometimes we use each other as guides for pacing and to keep up with our competition. I wasn’t sure if I was anywhere near placing. I just ran, giving it my best, thinking that my best would be one of my worst times that year.
As I was making my first loop, there was a clearing where another team had settled as they waited for their own race to begin; their team colors were blue and gold, and as I was running by them, I started shouting. I wasn’t shouting at them, but I was shouting to them, saying something like, “Come on, come on, let’s go.” This was my effort to cheer myself on, and I motioned with my arms as if were I asking them to stand up and root for me. I can’t remember if my voice was ever that hoarse and deep before. It was a brief moment that has lasted in my memory as a slow motion image. They were quiet, speechless, looking at me with wide eyes.
During the second loop—just before the final stretch, my body, the rhythms of my arms rocking back and forth, the thuds of my shoes against the wet grass, and the dew still tickling my ankles—I was going full force, but every step I took felt slower and slower. I couldn’t see anyone before me or behind me, and for all I knew, I was last. That blue and gold team was still there, and as I was huffing past them, they all stood up and cheered me on, jumping up and down, and motioning with their arms to inspire me to keep going. I can only imagine the bizarre expression on my face, perhaps, the same look that they gave me during the first loop. I picked up my pace. When I made the turn to the last stretch, I saw my coach who was shouting and cheering me on. I had never seen him like that before, and I started kicking, perhaps, earlier than I should, but I kicked while my chest burned, my legs giving up just as I crossed the finish line.
I saw a teammate of mine as I hunched over. As usual, he was waiting there for the rest of us, since he was one of the top runners, not only for our division but across all divisions in the state, breaking his own school records over and over again. He told me I was second in state with the biggest smile on his face, patting me on the back. I looked around, and I didn’t see any of the other runners there at the line, not from my own team or from any of the other schools. It was just us two—first and second. I’d placed in the top ten before but never second.
Twenty-five years later, I think about that meet a lot. I think about my shouting coach and my fast teammate waiting patiently for his slower comrades. Most of all, I think about that team from another school who cheered me on during that second loop. These were runners I didn’t know at all, nor would I ever see them again. But they were closer than strangers, and they’ve become friends in my mind. I can still hear their spirited voices when I’m jogging around my neighborhood, or even when I’m facing challenges in life. The memory reassures me that people really do reach out their hands to help others, to guide them over the finish line, to put an arm around the shoulder as they make it to the end.
Thanksgiving Pizza
My mother was overseas visiting family in Kolkata, and it was just my dad and me back at home in Louisiana; hence, the pizza, bought early afternoon and kept on the kitchen counter for our feast later on that day. It was night—rainy, all the makings of one of those movie scenes when everything goes wrong.
The ER parking lot lights were somber, as the rain transitioned into drizzle. I flinched at my own shadow. I was afraid of myself, or at least a figment of myself. I walked toward the entrance, in tears. My dad had called me, a hectic and muffled voice, saying that he was in a car accident and that the ambulance was taking him to the hospital because his leg was broken. He was visiting a family friend before we were to dine on our pizza later that night. With each step, my thoughts fleeted toward the worst. The moon felt shattered inside my head. Its pieces jabbed at my flickering thoughts.
An officer was already there in a side room, waiting for me, and I gave him the necessary information. He was gentle and patient, as I tried to manage words amid my sobs. “Is he okay?” I kept asking, and he mentioned that I would need to talk to the hospital staff. He said that my father’s car was sandwiched, hit hard from a truck behind him, and his sedan rocked forward into the car ahead of him. The rain didn’t help.
I was finally able to see my dad. They were getting ready to take him in to work on his leg. I hugged him as much as I could as I didn’t want to cause any pain in case he was hurting elsewhere. I remember my tears falling on his neck, as he was telling me it would all be fine. As one of the assistants was adjusting his blanket, I saw a bit of his bone sticking out and cried more while rubbing his forehead with my hand. I told him that I loved him. How often did I tell him that?
The pizza box remained on the kitchen counter for about a week. Once my dad arrived home, and as my world began to slow down and ease a bit, finding a rhythm of graduate school and taking care of my dad, I thew the pizza away. I had been in touch with my mother all this time, providing updates, but when I called her that night, after throwing away the pizza, and when she picked up, my first words were, “I love you.” It was really all I wanted to say.
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