A little bit of stage fright, then I'm ready.~Faith Hill
There was something about all those eyes in that room; just like there was something about all those eyes in all the rooms he had ever been in, that made him uncomfortable. He did not want to make eye contact with anybody, especially with her. He did not know what they were thinking but whatever it was, he was sure, it was not good. He cringed as he walked through the aisle between the benches, trying to close his eyes. He tried to convince himself that by shutting his eyes he could make all those eyes look away. But it did not help and his insides tied themselves up in knots. She was seated in the third row and he skipped a breath as he crossed her bench. She had worn white ribbons in her braids, and looked like an angel. He felt his cheeks flush.
His name had been called out as he was next on the roll call. The walk from his bench at the end of the classroom to the dais at the front seemed unending; and somewhere he kept wishing that the distance would keep increasing with every step that he took. Reluctantly, he reached the rostrum. It was his turn for poetry recitation but he did not want to face the class. He looked at his teacher. She mechanicallly made a tick mark with her pencil against his name on the assessment sheet and waited for him to begin. He knew his poem by rote. He had recited it to himself in front of the mirror at least a couple of dozen times in the past few days.
He took a deep breath and mustered up all the voice he could. To his horror, he realised, he couldn't recall the first words of the poem. Almost all the students who had gone in front of the class before him had fumbled or halted with their recitation at least once. Sitting on his favourite last bench he had been imagining how he would have recited each of those poems, with alacrity and confidence. But now he had cold feet; like he had every time he had had to face an audience. He swiftly glanced around the classroom trying to place the students mentally as to who was seated where - desperate to find a friendly face. He did not find comfort in any corner. Helplessly he looked at his teacher who was on the brink of impatience. She stared at him blankly, tapping her pencil on her desk. Haplessly, he decided to get on with it. To hell with the immense amount of practice he had put in, to hell with the fact that he wanted to be the best reciter of his class, to hell with the fact that he wanted 'her' to clap for him when he was done reciting.
Still in a quest to buy time, he began " Hello friends, today I am going to recite Daffodils by William Wordsworth". By a quirk of fate he chanced to catch another glimpse of her. She was smiling sweetly, and was gesturing the 'thumbs up' sign to him. His stomach cartwheeled - once, twice, three times! He found his tongue and began to recite. "I wandered lonely as a Cloud - That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills, - When all at once I saw a crowd - A host of dancing Daffodils..!" He looked straight ahead and imagined himself in front of his mirror. His voice was clear, stance perfect. Without a single pause, he went on just like he had practiced. It seemed as if he were living the poem as he recited it. His mind was clear and focused. He went on confidently. As he began the fourth and final stanza, "For oft when on my couch I lie - In vacant or in pensive mood, - They flash upon that inward eye..," he stole a look at her once more. She was looking intently at him, as was every other student in the class - mesmerised. "Which is the bliss of solitude," he continued with renewed vigour. "And then my heart with pleasure fills, - And dances with the Daffodils..!" he concluded pompously.
He beamed nervously at the class, then at his teacher and wiped his brow with relief as he received a thunderous round of applause from his classmates; but all he could see were the pearly whites of that girl with white satin ribbons in her braids. He walked back to his seat with his head held high, feeling like a million bucks. He was going run endlessly around the school campus during lunch break, and mud wrestle on his way back home. What more could a ten year old wish for?
--
P.S. - Read the entire poem here.
~
