Disclaimer: No Hares or Tortoises were harmed during the writing
of this story. Or maybe they were harmed. Who knows? We were busy writing.
It started one Monday, like all disasters do. The urban
jungle had woken up to yet another Air Quality Index of “Are you kidding me?” The birds were coughing through their beaks.
The bees were packing the hive. And the frogs were holding a referendum on
emigration. The air was as thick as lies; and purifiers weren’t helping.
In the jungle lived a Hare that could run faster than logic
on a WhatsApp forward; and a Tortoise who moved with the gentle grace of
government paperwork. The Hare was lean, toned, and wore knockoff Playboy shoes
made from the recycled guilt of urban vegans. He was the kind of creature who
referred to breathing as “oxygenating”, eating as “fuelling”, and anything delicious
as “carbs”. His fur was perpetually tousled, not from wind but from the sheer
velocity of his own narcissism.
The Tortoise, on the other hand, was… slow. He carried a
large backpack the size of a small ration shop stuffed with what he called
“essentials for survival.” These included a battered thermos flask, a pack of
Parle-G biscuits, and most crucially – an N-95 mask, which he treated with the
reverence one might reserve for a family heirloom, or a packet of cocaine. The Tortoise
was not fast, but he was prepared. His shell, already a natural armour, was
adorned with stickers that read “Honk OK Please” and “Wait Side” though no one
had ever been able to wait that long. He generally referred to the AQI as
“severe”. The locals called it “4 pm”. Proud that he didn’t contribute at all
to air pollution, he preferred to carry his home wherever he went so he never
needed to take an Uber. In fact, he hadn’t even farted since 1984.
And so it began. It was a sweltering summer day. The papers
reported that it was the hottest summer of the century. The Tortoise simply
said “I’ve heard that before.” There was a haze of burnt leaves, burnt crops,
and burnt hopes in the air. Visibility was low. Morality was lower. The Hare
challenged the Tortoise for a race through the jungle. The Tortoise initially
refused. He had given up racing since the whole incident with Zeno where he was
blamed for messing up Achilles’ heel.
But someone important-looking overheard them – possibly a
municipal officer, possibly a brand ambassador for ‘Breathe Bharat’ – and
decided that a public race would be just the thing to boost civic morale. And
so the race was declared. Posters were printed. At least six trees were cut
down to make them. The prize? A lifetime supply of filtered water and a
ridiculously overpriced apartment in Gurugram, which everyone knew was a scam
but pretended to covet anyway.
So the race was set. The track wound through the jungle that
had been molested by development. The starting point was a mall. The finish
line was another mall. Neither was visible through the thick haze. In between,
there were broken roads, a metro construction project, and areas marked as
"green zones" which meant they had at least one potted plant.
“Ready, steady, choke!” shouted the unofficial referee, a
street dog who promptly scampered off to chase a discarded samosa. And with
that, the race began.
The Hare, fuelled by protein powder and his father’s unmet
expectations, dashed off like ambition at a college reunion. “See you at the finish line, backpack boy!”
he yelled over his shoulder as he zig-zagged around potholes, leapt over
plastic bags, and overtook three fitness influencers shooting a reel titled
“cardio is casteist”. The air was a thick soup of dust, diesel fumes, and the
faint regret of a million morning commutes. The Hare didn’t care. He huffed and
puffed, sucking in the atmosphere like it was a power-up in a video game. “Speed is life!” he declared, vaulting
over a pile of garbage that might have once been a mattress.
Meanwhile the Tortoise moved like climate change – slow,
deliberate, and likely to be dismissed. He adjusted his backpack straps,
muttered something about “sustainable living,” and pulled out his N-95 mask. With
the solemnity of a priest performing a ritual, he strapped it over his snout,
the elastic snapping into place with a satisfying thwack. He trudged
forward, slowly, past choking rivers and concrete jungles. On his way he found
a signboard that said “plant a tree today”
next to a bulldozer. A child tried to sell him a packet of incense sticks for “purification”.
The first kilometer was a disaster for the Hare. He zipped
past a traffic jam so dense it resembled a modern art installation titled “Despair in Three Lanes.” Horns blared in
a symphony of rage, and a truck driver leaned out to yell, “Oye, Usain Bolt ki Aulad! Jaanta hai mera
Baap kaun hai?” The Hare ignored him, sucking in a lungful of exhaust as he
darted between a bus and a cow that had decided the middle of the road was a
fine place to relieve itself. His chest heaved, his Ray-Bans fogged up, and a
faint wheeze crept into his breathing. “Just
allergies,” he muttered, spitting out a gob of paan-stained phlegm that
landed perilously close to a street vendor’s pile of roasted corn.
By kilometer three, the Hare’s bravado was unravelling. The
pollution had thickened into a gray curtain, and his lungs felt like they were
auditioning for a role in a horror movie. He coughed — a wet, rattling sound — and
stumbled into a crowd of office-goers shoving their way toward a Metro station.
“Move, move, I’m in a race!” he
shouted, only to be elbowed in the ribs by a man carrying a briefcase and a
grudge. The Hare’s pace slowed. His eyes watered. His Ray-Bans slipped down his
nose, revealing bloodshot eyes that screamed for mercy. “This air,” he gasped, “is a
conspiracy by the Tortoises to win!”
The Tortoise, now a full kilometer behind, was having a
different experience. His N-95 mask filtered out the worst of the filth, and
his backpack bobbed rhythmically as he navigated the chaos. He passed a group
of schoolchildren wearing masks that matched their navy blue uniforms, with a
logo that said “Study Hard, Breathe
Harder” One of them waved at him. “Go,
Tortoise Uncle!” she cheered. The Tortoise nodded gravely. “Thank you, small citizen,” he replied. “May your lungs outlast your textbooks.”
At kilometer five, the Hare hit a wall – figuratively and
then literally. The figurative wall was his collapsing respiratory system; the
literal one was a billboard advertising for luxury flats in Noida. He’d been
weaving through a snarl of traffic when a tempo loaded with cement bags
swerved, forcing him to leap aside and crash into the sign. He slumped to the
ground, coughing so hard his ears flopped like wet laundry. “I’m fine,” he wheezed to a stray dog
that had wandered over to investigate. “Totally
fine. Winning. Definitely winning.” The dog peed on the billboard and
trotted off.
The Tortoise, meanwhile, had reached a stretch of road lined
with street vendors selling everything from knockoff N-95s to “pollution-proof” herbal teas. One
vendor, a wiry man with an abdomen that had a will of its own, called out, “Oye, Tortoise bhai, buy my special chai!
Clears the lungs, guaranteed!” The Tortoise paused, considered the offer,
then shook his head. “I trust science,
not chai,” he said, and kept moving. His backpack jingled faintly – perhaps
the Parle-G biscuits were staging a minor rebellion.
By kilometer eight, the Hare was a wreck. His lungs sounded
like a broken harmonium, and his once-proud sprint had devolved into a
staggering limp. The crowds had thickened near Connaugh Place, where hawkers,
tourists, and traffic cops jostled in a dance of mutual irritation. A cloud of
dust kicked up by a passing bus enveloped him, and he collapsed onto a bench,
hacking up something that looked suspiciously like a dung cake. “I should’ve bought a mask,” he croaked,
as a pigeon landed nearby and promptly keeled over from the fumes.
The Tortoise, now closing the gap, trudged past a protest
march – something about stubble burning, or maybe it was about the price of
onions; no one could tell through the noise and the haze. His mask was smudged
with grime, but his resolve was intact. “Slow
and steady,” he muttered, “survives
the race.” A traffic cop waved him through an intersection, mistaking him
for some kind of eco-activist mascot.
At kilometer nine, the Hare made his last stand. He
staggered to his feet, determined to reclaim his dignity. He took three steps,
inhaled a lungful of what felt like molten tar, and collapsed again, this time
into a pile of leaves that had been swept into the gutter by an overzealous
municipal worker. His Playboy shoes fell off, revealing eyes that begged for an
oxygen tank. “Pollution,” he
whispered, “you’ve beaten me.”
The Tortoise crossed the finish line at just as the sun
dipped below the horizon, turning the smog into a sickly orange glow. A small
crowd had gathered – mostly street dogs and a few bored tourists – and they
clapped politely as he raised a claw in triumph. The referee dog reappeared,
dragging half a chapatti from somewhere. “Winner!”
he barked, then wandered off again.
The Hare arrived an hour later, carried on a makeshift
stretcher by two autorickshaw drivers who’d taken pity on him. His fur was gray
with dust, his lungs were a symphony of despair, and his ego was in tatters. “I demand a rematch,” he croaked. “On a treadmill. Indoors. With an air
purifier.”
The Tortoise, sipping from his steel bottle, looked at him
with pity. “Speed is a delusion,” he
said, “when the air itself is your enemy.”
He offered the Hare a spare N-95 mask from his backpack. The Hare took it, too
broken to argue.
And so, the tale of the Hare and the Tortoise became legend,
whispered between sips of chai and honks of traffic. It was said that the Hare founded
a start-up called “HareCare” that
provided oxygen as a service. Meanwhile, the Tortoise was last seen trudging
towards his new apartment that had once been a landfill, now renamed “Eco
Heights”.
