The Race of Our Times

Westford High seemed to have the odd charm of a train station during a rush hour. Even on a usual Tuesday, students ran from one place to another as though they were very late for a train that was just about to leave. They were very busy, bags were swinging all around, and one could always hear someone say something like, "I forgot my worksheet!" Esha Raman was the one who walked through all this noise and chaos and she walked at a speed that was neither tiring nor needing an excuse to the school nurse.

His best friend Ayaan, on the contrary, was the one who needed to be in good spirits all the time. He studied with such passion that sometimes his highlighters were left empty in a matter of days, drained before their time. Every time she told him that he was overdoing it a bit, he would just shrug and say you snooze, you lose, thus conveniently ignoring the fact that he hadn't slept well since Monday.

The Efficiency Enhancement Program followed and it was just like lukewarm custard, almost tasteless and not exciting at all. It guaranteed order, yet chaos was the outcome. Just like that, lessons got turned into timed races and trackers monitored every move of the students.

In a few days the school was more like a pressure cooker than a learning place. The students were running around for no reason, their talks were short as if each word was charged, and even the teachers were walking fast and talking about deadlines which appeared to them out of nowhere. Ayaan was on the top of the leaderboard at first, moving up with an astonishing speed but soon his brilliance was gone. His handwriting became shaky, his jokes lost their brightness, and a constant panic-cum-fog was following him.

A grey Thursday marked the arrival of the breaking point. Ayaan was in the library, nervously shaking his leg like a faulty engine. He was doing a timed quiz and misreading a question, panicked and broke his pen right in the middle. Ink went all over the desk in a spectacular though somewhat dramatic display of despair over studies. He mumbled that he felt like a relay runner who was stuck on a track extending into the next century, giving the baton to someone he barely had time to hold.

Esha did not say a word but rather, she took out a small notebook that she had kept in her possession. It contained drawings of the school garden, stray lines of overheard wisdom, and silent notices of passing clouds. These are the things one can only observe if they are not running through life. Ayaan looked through it and, for the first time in weeks, he let out a breath that did not sound like the whistling of a faulty kettle.

They agreed to move at their own pace. Morning walks around the quad. Lunchtime free of reviewing strategies. An absolute refusal to consider fatigue a symbol of struggle. Little by little, really, their serenity turned out to be infectious. Children went on taking time to inhale and exhale. The digital monitors lost their power over the students. Teachers came to realize that ideas which were left to stew were often tastier than those coming directly from the hob turned high.

The transformation was subtle but steady, arriving like dawn rather than fireworks. Tempers settled. Essays improved. Friendships regained their warmth. Productivity did not vanish; it simply stepped off its throne.

After all, more haste, less speed.

Hasiny Umayal Manikandan