Race: A short story by Mukta Singh-Zocchi

At 9:15 PM, Vinita stepped into her son’s room. Rocky, the dog, lay sprawled on the mattress in the corner, his black nose tilted upward as he snored, paws crossed over his chest as if awaiting a reward, even in sleep.

Mohan was absorbed in Harry Potter, lying on the bed with his legs folded, shifting them now and then as if mirroring the tension in the book.

“Should I read?” Vinita asked softly.

No response. He was too deep in the story.

On the bed beside him, the cat sat like a large bullet, eyes fixed on Mohan, unblinking, as if standing guard.

It was a cold night. Vinita pulled the blanket over Rocky and repeated, “Should I read?”

This time, Mohan peeled the book away from his face, whispering, “Wait, there’s someone in the pipe,” before vanishing back into Harry’s world.

Vinita smiled, watching him. He had just turned eight. His face still carried the softness of childhood, his lips like rose petals, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

She busied herself tidying up the room. When she was done, she bent down to wish him goodnight. Without looking up, Mohan patted the bed beside him. She lay down next to him.

“Rip, tear, kill…” he whispered, engrossed in his book.

She didn’t know when she drifted off.

***

When Vinita woke up, she saw that Mohan was still reading. Gently, she nudged him and reminded him to sleep on time so he wouldn’t be late for school. As she got up to leave, Mohan spoke. “Mom, tomorrow is Sports Day at school, and it’s also your birthday. I’ve planned a surprise. Don’t forget, you and Dad need to come.”

“Sports Day?” Vinita was caught off guard. “What will you do at Sports Day?” she stammered.

Then, catching herself, she added, “We’ll do this—Dad and I will take the day off, and the three of us will go to the zoo. It’ll be a great birthday celebration. How about that?”

Mohan was silent for a moment. Then, with the quiet certainty of someone who had made up his mind, he said, “You both must be there. No excuses. Otherwise, I’ll be very upset.”

He returned to his book.

***

In the other room, Satish put his magazine aside as Vinita walked in. “What took you so long?” he asked, motioning for her to sit beside him. “Come, let’s practise Taekwondo.”

“You’re always making jokes.” Vinita sighed. “Why do you say things like that?”

Her voice wavered, on the verge of breaking. “At this moment, you should go and sit with Mohan. Talk to him.”

Satish scoffed. “Here she goes with the women’s talk. When he grows up, he’s not going to be a woman. He’s a man’s son, and I’ll make him a man.” He stood in front of the mirror, combing his hair.

“Why are you getting ready?”

“I’m getting ready because we’re going to bed,” he said, running the comb through his moustache. “We’re not cavemen. Everything should be neat.”

Vinita exhaled. “Listen, tomorrow is Mohan’s Sports Day. I don’t know what to do.”

Satish looked at her. “What do you need to do for Mohan’s Sports Day?”

Vinita lay down on the bed and turned away from him, the weight of unspoken fears pressing against her chest. Silent, Satish picked up his magazine again and flipped the pages as if nothing had changed.

***

Mohan had been born with four fully developed legs. Aside from that, he was perfectly healthy. At birth, the doctors had hesitated to perform surgery, suggesting they wait. As he grew, his parents, extended family, and friends saw him not as different but as whole. Surgery was no longer a necessity—it was a question they had stopped asking. Yet, even after all these years, Vinita wrestled with a fear she could not name, a hesitation she could not silence.

Late into the night, Satish remained absorbed in his magazine, Mohan lost himself in his book, and Vinita, quietly broken, cried herself to sleep.

***

At the school stadium, fifteen hundred spectators filled the stands. Vinita, Satish, his parents, her parents, and her brother’s family sat together—Mohan had invited them all.

“I have a surprise planned for Mom’s birthday,” he had told them. “Be there.”

Vinita adjusted her sunglasses, scanning the track. Her star was right there, among eight other boys. Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms.

It’s just a race, she told herself.

But the words felt weightless against the storm in her chest.

What if he stumbles? What if they laugh? What if—

A gunshot. The race had begun.

Mohan launched forward with such explosive force that he took the lead instantly. His front left foot struck the track, his right followed in perfect sync. The other competitors were quickly left behind. The crowd roared.

Vinita held her breath. Her pulse raced with his.

She thought of the nights he curled into her, a warm bundle of trust. She had soothed him, whispered stories into his hair. Had there always been a tiny hesitation within her? A shadow of guilt, of wishing for something simpler?

The thought sliced through her, sudden and sharp.

She looked at him now—his eager face turned toward the track, his body in perfect motion. And something inside her shifted.

This was her child.

Whole.

Complete.

No hesitation. No guilt. Just love.

A steadying warmth—Satish’s hand on her knee.

“Relax,” he murmured. “He’s got this.”

Mohan’s rhythm picked up. The gap between him and the others widened.

He wasn’t just running.

He was flying.

Just then, a boy from behind surged ahead, and the crowd rose to its feet. Only then did Mohan adjust his stride, pushing harder off his back legs, his front legs hitting the ground with renewed force as he propelled himself forward.

Watching her son soar through the air, Vinita’s heart clenched. She feared the toll it might be taking on his heart. His front right leg, now bearing more weight than usual, only deepened her anxiety. She and Satish had never pushed Mohan this far physically, and now Satish, too, was visibly anxious.

The 400-meter race, though over in barely a minute, stretched on for what felt like an eternity. That minute became the longest of Vinita’s life. The air around her crackled with electricity as the finish line neared, and Vinita could almost feel herself running alongside him, breathless, weightless, caught in a tug-of-war between hope and dread. For a fleeting moment, all else—the whispers, the judgments, her own uncertainties—vanished, replaced by the rhythmic thud of his four legs against the track, like a secret song only he could hear.

And then, he crossed the line.

A deafening roar filled the air, but Vinita barely heard it. Inside her, something had snapped open —like a dam bursting, unleashing a flood of emotions too complex to name. She exhaled, and in that breath, she released everything. Her gaze met Satish’s, who quickly looked away, blinking rapidly. Seeing her watching him, he whispered, “Didn’t I tell you?”

The applause continued, but the angered shouts of some parents cut through. They were confronting the principal and the coach.

“How could such a race be allowed?” they yelled.

Vinita, torn between pride in her son’s triumph and concern for the uproar around them, struggled to focus. Tears welled up in her eyes, her heart softened, and silently, she began to cry.

Suddenly, the noise around her shifted. The angry voices of the parents faded, then disappeared entirely. The jubilant cheers of the children rang out as they sang, “We are the champions.”

Vinita lifted her eyes and saw the same boys who had been competitors just moments before now celebrating together. They had hoisted Mohan onto their shoulders, parading him around the track with the trophy in hand. Though his face was weary, Mohan smiled brightly. The coach, microphone in hand, announced that with the full consent of Satish and the doctor, Mohan had been training under his supervision for months. Together, they had all learned invaluable lessons—Mohan, his classmates, and the coach alike.

***

That night, Vinita sat in Mohan’s room, gently massaging his legs as he slept. The cat, curled in a basket, exhaled long, steady breaths. Rocky lay near his feet, making soft sounds in his sleep, as if he had run the race, too.

Earlier, Satish had handed Vinita a single rose—a large, clumsy thing, deep red, with fewer petals and a bowl-like shape. . “Happy birthday,” he had said, his voice hesitant. She had noticed the pause before he passed it to her. “This flower is for you to smell, not just to look at.”

She had tucked it into her hair.

Now, she pulled the rose free and held it in her hands. It didn’t seem awkward anymore. She lifted it to her face, inhaling its scent.

It was full. Alive.

For so long, she had braced herself against the world’s judgment, against whispered stares and quiet exclusions.

But in this moment, nothing needed to be explained.

Mohan had run. He had won.

And the world kept turning.

She breathed in again, and this time, a smile curved her lips.