Sister Peggy Ricketts.
By age 14 I knew that athletes were the coolest people on earth. My father had presented me with ‘The Wills Book of Olympics’ (a picture book sponsored by a cigarette company) that I was obsessed with. I knew as much as a knock-kneed girl deprived of athletic talent could possibly know about Jesse Owens, Valerie Briscoe Hooks, Emil Zatopeck, and Nadia Comaneci. While I was unable to devote any time to conjugating French verbs or sorting out algebra I spent hours trying to memorize all ten sporting events that made up the Decathlon.
I worshipped all these super humans but I was partial to sprinters and I was a major fan of both Florence Griffith Joyner and Edwin Moses. I wanted to be either one of them – muscular, graceful, beautiful and world-famous. My new ambition coincided with the annual inter-house athletics competition and I decided that I would throw myself into preparing my body for it. With nothing but air in my head I set about choosing an event. What would I dedicate myself to? It was obvious that I would need to pick something I had an actual chance of winning and after mulling over the possibilities I had the nerve to settle on the 110 meter hurdle race. I based this decision on the fact that I had always been slightly taller than the average girl my age and in my tiny mind that was the talent one needed to compete in an event that, as far as I was concerned, involved jumping over several fence posts. While not as glamorous as winning the 100 meter dash Flo-Jo style it was Edwin Moses’ main event and so it would do.
I would like the reader to know that this was not my first athletic endeavor. I was a proud member of the inter-level hockey team (granted I was on it mostly for my ability to get along well with everyone) and I considered myself to be in peak physical shape. It was with this optimistic frame of mind that I approached my first training day.
It was a standard mid-April morning up in the Nilgiri Hills – clear, crisp, and sunny. The athletic ground was called Top Flats; a huge field with bleachers on two sides for the fans (or non-athletes as I liked to call them). I made way to Top Flats in the company of A* – the best athlete in my age group and possibly the entire school. The girl did not run, she flew, and was part of a group of students whose athletic training was overseen by Mr. Boppiah and Mr. Bharathan – our coaches. I was not part of this elite group but A happened to be going to Top Flats a little early to ‘warm-up’ and so I would be able to pretend we were peers. Just walking with her was inspiring and by the time I got there I knew that today was the day that school would be introduced to yet another gifted athlete.
With A by my side it did not occur to me that one day of preparation would be supremely inadequate, instead my mind was filled with the screams of all the fans as they saw me, the under-dog, the wild card, the unexpected conqueror defeat the other competitors. Who knew maybe the 100 meter dash – the holiest of holy grails – was next.
The ‘warm-up’ felt more like an all-out sprint to me but I hung in there. Since the hurdles were already set up in anticipation of the first round of heats that were to be held the following afternoon A suggested we do a quick ‘warm-up’ run down the 110 meter hurdle track. A went first and as I collected myself and my breath I watched her carefully because I knew I would need to replicate everything she did. She crouched at the starting line (the way sprinters do) and then she was off – soaring over each hurdle in perfect form. She finished and jogged back to me.
Now it was my turn. I could hear the fans going nuts in the bleachers – but I would tune them out. I needed to focus. All that mattered was finishing without making any errors. I simulated A’s starting crouch.
“GO!” Yelled A and off I went.
As I charged towards the first hurdle I saw myself, gazelle-like, leaping in to the air, effortlessly clearing one obstacle after another. With the theme song from Flashdance (What a Feeling by Irene Cara)playing in my head I sailed over the first hurdle and the next thing I knew I was face-down in a cloud of dust wishing I were dead.
“Oh my God – Radhika – are you OK?!”
Blood was gushing from a deep gash in my knee but I didn’t even notice, I was too busy contemplating the fact that my athletic career was not to be.
On seeing my knee A suggested we go to the hospital, she even offered to come with me but it was too late because the rest of the athletes were beginning to gather and she would have to join them.
I had no intention of going to the hospital. I knew I would get a tetanus injection and there was no way that was happening, of all the things that I am afraid of air-craft toilets and needles are right up there. Instead I limped back to the dorms washed my injury, stuck a band-aid on it and went about my life. A few days later the cut was properly infected and the following Sunday I nervously made my way to the hospital.
My knee hurt and I knew a Tetanus injection was a sure thing. As I entered the first aid room my misery immediately gave way to fear because there seated behind the desk and reading her morning newspaper was the Duty Nurse – Sister Peggy Ricketts.
The school hospital was Sister Ricketts’ fiefdom, she ruled the roost and no one (not even the Doctor) dared cross her. A large, plump woman, Sister Ricketts was always a vision in white. Dressed in a spotless white calf-length dress, stockings, flat shoes , cardigan and, sitting on her head like a little crown, a white nurses hat. Her pink cheeks and light eyes had once, very long ago misled me to believe she was a kind Florence-Nightingale type person whose only joy was found in making people feel better. How wrong I was!
My last experience with Sister Ricketts was from three years ago. I was sent to the hospital because I had the flu. I was housed with five other sickos in the girls ward. Dinner was served promptly at seven and it was a rule that we ate every last morsel put in front of us. The firm upholder of this rule was Sister Ricketts. The meal consisted of rice kanji, a gruel that defies description, and a cup of milk. I hated milk and so I decided that I would dispose of it. The long story less long let us just say that Sister Ricketts caught me red-handed as I was pouring my milk down the toilet sink. I had not heard her sneak up behind me.
“RADHIKA VAZ! What do you think you are doing?” All 200 pounds of Sister Ricketts bawled at me.
“In the dining room now!”
I scuttled off to the dining room with Sister Ricketts in pursuit. I was shitting myself by now. I knew she was old-school and a big believer in beatings, smackings and slappings. Plus it was clear that she wanted to make an example out of me. The other patients all sat there white faced as she yelled at all of us.
“Do you think this is a joke?” She screamed – her face and both chins a disturbing shade of crimson.
“Do you think throwing your milk away is funny? How do you expect to get better? No – you don’t want to get better, you want to sit here sick and weak and irritate me – that is all you children are good for.”
She then picked a sturdy wooden spatula off the table and, much to the horror and intense amusement of the others and myself, proceeded to give the palms of my dainty little hands a sound walloping. Ever since then when Sister Ricketts saw my parents, she would let them know in no uncertain terms that they should have raised me with an iron hand, that I was a smart mouth without any of the required smarts and that one day I would get my comeuppance. Clearly that day had come. I was completely at her mercy and I was sure she was going to kill me.
Now that I am older and a smidge wiser I realize two things. Working on a Sunday stinks and seeing a client that you think is a worthless oaf on that Sunday stinks even harder.
“Radhika Vaz! What are you doing here?” She bellowed.
“I fell on Top Flats and cut my knee.” I quivered back.
On uncovering what was now a disgusting, septic looking wound Sister Peggy’s eyes almost popped out of her head and I knew I was in big trouble.
“When did this happen?” Why was she still shouting? I was standing right by her!
“A few days ago.” I mumbled vaguely.
“WHEN EXACTLY?”
“Last week.” I said trembling like a leaf.
“What idiot sits quietly with this for one week? This is terrible – you might need stitches!”
I started to cry immediately.
“Please Sister! Please don’t give me stitches. Anything except stitches.”
My wailing and Sister Peggy’s normal speaking voice brought Sister Anamma to the First Aid Room.
“So loudly this girl is crying! What happened? Someone is dead or what?”
Sister Anamma was second in command. Tall, thin, dark-skinned and always wrapped in a pristine white sari, she was the physical opposite of Sister Ricketts. But other than that they were two peas in a pod, bonded together in their common distaste for bratty, sick kids. My nightmare was getting worse.
“This fool had gone and fallen LAST WEEK somewhere-or- the- other doing God-only-knows-what. It’s infected and now she comes crying ‘Oh Sister please help me’”.
They spent the next few minutes debating the need for stitches, my incredible stupidity, and the fact that they were both having such a nice, quiet morning until now. They finally decided it was too late for stitches, that I would require a Tetanus injection, but before any of that they would have to clean up my knee which – due to my limited intelligence – was now a cesspool and was definitely going to hurt like hell.
With anyone else I would have wept and wailed and acted like a complete jack-ass. But With Sister Ricketts I sat there without making a sound, one hand clenching the bed and the other one wrapped around Sister Anamma’s boney arm. Knowing full well what would happen to me if I cried or made a fuss Sister Anamma tried to distract me. We chatted mainly about boys and my sad-sack love life seemed to amuse both nurses greatly. Because I am easily encouraged by laughter I started to think that these two women were my new BFFs and I was about to start on a new storey when Sister Peggy announced she was done with my knee, was fed-up and wanted to get some tea so would Sister Anamma please administer the injection.
Besides being crushed that she wasn’t in to my story I was horrified that I would not have anyone to cling to in my darkest hour. It was probably the look of desperation on my face that kept her there and as Sister Anamma got ready to skewer me Sister Ricketts held my hand – the very same one she had battered three years ago.
*Name hidden to protect my Facebook friendships.
Vazi! you eventually became a star athelete in school, right? and your (eventual) graceful jumping over hurdles is captured on celluloid…people, she’s not as much of a loser as she sounds:)
There is so much material from those years in lovedale….
Do you remember – Sanjay invited peggy ricketts to their wedding and even then – meeting her after almost a decade, I still felt frightened. You missed mentioning the huge vat of “cough cold” mixture that we had to have if we had a cough or cold
Too funny! I can see her so clearly bellowing at you!