Artichoke Hearts by Sita Brahmachari Page A

Kath jumped up and down, like she was on springs. She announced to everyone around us that number fifty-two was her grandson and
that her own Grandad Billy, my great-great-grandad, had been a famous fell runner.
    It looked as if Krish was going to come in third place. Then suddenly, right at the end, he made his arms and legs pump faster, and pelted straight past the other two boys.
    ‘Aye, there’s no doubting, the lad’s got it in his blood,’ croaked the old man in the green tweed cap, standing next to Nana Kath.
    Krish had this look of complete determination on his face, like he just had to win. Nana Kath, Mum, Dad and me, and the old man with the cap were all cheering him on, and I saw Grandad
Bimal, who was sitting in the car, punch the air as Krish ran for the finish line.
    After the race, Krish had to stand in the middle of this podium, on the first place stand, which is the highest bit, and two other boys, who came in second and third place, stood on either side,
in the pouring rain. The loudspeaker played ‘God Save the Queen’, like it was the Olympics or something. Dad said that was a bit over the top, but I thought Krish was lucky to be
standing on a podium in the middle of those mountains . . . Even in the pouring rain, it’s one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. It’s like he belonged. Watching Krish
standing there did feel like a historic occasion in our family, even though they announced the winner to be someone else . . . ‘Chris Levenson’.
    It was then that I saw Grandad Bimal hoist himself out of the car, and walk very slowly over to the caravan, where the man was chattering away on the loudspeaker. The next thing I heard was
Loudspeaker Man’s voice.
    ‘I have an apology to make. I am standing here with-’
    ‘Dr Bimal Chatterjee,’ Grandad interrupted him.
    ‘Quite, and the doctor lives locally, married to a Cumbrian lass . . .’ That made Nana Kath smile, to be called a ‘lass’. ‘It’s his grandson who has just won
the Junior Guides Race. He’s the youngest ever child to win this race, and my apologies because I mispronounced his name. It’s not Chris Levenson . . .’
    Then I heard Grandad’s voice again with the proper pronunciation of Krishan’s name, which actually sounds quite different from how we all say it.
    ‘It’s Kri-shan Levenson.’ Grandad’s bass-drum voice echoed through those mountains and for a moment people stopped to listen, as if they were trying to identify strange
birdsong. It felt as if the mountains were listening too, to the news that there’s another fell runner in the family. Maybe the old man was right . . . it’s in the blood.
    Since I started my period, every time I think of anything, there’s blood involved somewhere. Krish will never have to feel like I do now; he can just run free, not
worrying about what’s happening inside his body. Suddenly Krish and me are living in separate universes, because of the blood. I don’t even think I could run today and I have never in
my life felt further away from flying.
    We’ve always been different, even in primary school, Krish and me. The things I like to do aren’t really about winning. Even Art at school is not the same as it is with Nana. I know
I can do it, but I hate the kind of project where you have to look at an artist’s work, like Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, and learn about the techniques he used, and then paint your
own vase of sunflowers. You just get everybody trying to do the same thing, and nowhere near as well as Van Gogh, which, to me, is not really the point of art. With art like that, you don’t
get a chance to work out of your own imagination, except for once in primary school when there was a competition and we could do anything we wanted. I made this collage with photographs and food
and flowers. I used the inside plastic tray from a biscuit tin and painted each compartment a different colour, depending on what I was putting in it . . . the one