Okay, this one is special. It was my first tryst with public speaking when Mrs. Rathore (I still remember that benign lady, our Geography teacher) handed me this piece. I absolutely loved it. I worked round the hours with Miss Deepa Shah and Miss Nirija Bisht, and tried my best to master this piece. I still vividly remember how nervous I was that day. The competition was among six speakers. While the fact that the "Gods of elocution" like Abhay Pande did not participate was true, we still had the better and more experienced speakers of the two sections which included stalwarts like Pappi Don (Swapnil), Sagar Lohani, Dushyant Joshi, Nishant Joshi and Craig Mcgowan. I was the only first-timer. I was a great deal scared. But somehow I had faith in my piece and (a little) faith in myself. Moreover, Miss Deepa Shah told me that I was improving significantly which did more to boost my confidence than any other thing. The day arrived. I had to speak sixth. The fact that everyone had spoken smoothly did enervate me a little. I made a few mistakes and flinched at them, which is a bad thing to do as you let the judge know that you have made one even if they may have actually missed it. However, overall it went quite fine. When we climbed down the podium, the speakers from the senior class who had spoken just before us congratulated us. A few of them told me that I did a decent job and stood a fairly decent chance to win a medal. I kept my fingers crossed. The results were announced. There was no doubt that Craig would win it as he had both a wonderful piece and a handsome persona. I don't exactly remember the name of his poem but it was something on men versus women. Nishant Joshi with his awesome recitation of Christabel by Samuel Taylor Colerdige stood second. By now my hopes had dwindled. But then, Mr. Emmanuel, in his usual slow way, announced my name. I was absolutely elated. Then I have no idea what happened. A lot of merry-making perhaps. Enough of jabber now, here is the piece:
WHAT IS A BOY ?
- Alan Beck
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: to enjoy every second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere—on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to.
Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them, and Heaven protects them.
A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and the Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket. When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic, jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite—he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword-swallower, the energy of a pocket-sized atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a firecracker, and when he makes something, he has five thumbs on each hand. He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines.
He is not much for Sunday School, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime. Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, three feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, two gum drops, six cents, a slingshot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret compartment.
A boy is a magical creature—you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can’t lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can’t get him out of your mind. Might as well give up—he is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master—a freckled-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing, bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them like new with two magic words, "Hi Dad!"
