Every morning, his day began with a “Good mooorning” yawn that started in his toes, passed through both knees, and finally exploded out of his mouth like a small earthquake. The ceiling fan trembled, the window curtains fluttered, and even the old wall clock ticked a little faster out of fear. The first yawn of the day was powerful enough to make the crow on the compound wall open its beak in sympathy.
One Sunday, Murty decided to keep a secret scorecard. “Let me see how many times this fellow inside me wants fresh air,” he muttered. By breakfast time, he was already on Yawn Number Ten. The dosa on his plate looked offended. “Am I so boring?” it seemed to ask. By noon, he had crossed twenty. Even the television newsreader, who was busy repeating the same headlines for the third time, seemed to pause cautiously, as if afraid that the next yawn would come out of the screen. The trouble was that Murty’s yawns were highly contagious. If he yawned in the living room, the granddaughter in the bedroom yawned automatically, the neighbor’s dog stretched and yawned at the gate, and somewhere in the next street a retired banker felt suddenly sleepy for no reason at all. The whole colony risked going off to sleep in broad daylight. One day, after a gigantic afternoon yawn, even the Wi‑Fi signal dropped for a few seconds, as if it too needed a power nap.
That evening, his family held an emergency meeting. “Thatha, your yawns are going out of control,” announced the grandson. “We should enter you in some world record book before the batteries in that mouth run out.” The granddaughter suggested a title: “The Grand Yawning Championship – Champion: P. Murty, Age 82, Weight: classified.” The family decided they must train him properly. They made a mock stadium in the hall. The sofa became the starting line, the dining table became the finish line, and the gold medal was a shining round biscuit.
The rules were funny and strict.For a short yawn, he got one point. For a medium yawn with stretching of both arms, two points. For a deluxe yawn with eye-watering, shoulder-cracking, and a small sound effect like “Aaaah-oooh,” five points.Murty took the game very seriously. He warmed up with some jaw exercises, rotating his face left and right like a slow‑motion owl. Then, at the whistle, he started his performance. Within minutes, he had produced a deluxe yawn that made even the family’s framed photos look drowsy. The children clapped wildly. The biscuit‑medal was already as good as his.However, in the middle of all this fun, the sensible grandmother appeared with a cup of hot herbal tea. “Enough Olympics,” she said. “If yawning has become this frequent, we must also check whether you are sleeping well, drinking enough water, and not spending the whole night making friends with your mobile phone.” Murty tried to protest, but another yawn escaped, proving her point. The family agreed that while the Grand Yawning Championship was excellent entertainment, a small check‑up with the doctor and some proper rest were also part of the training plan.
That night, Murty went to bed early for the first time in weeks. He lay there smiling. “Imagine,” he thought, “at this age I have discovered a new sport where I can defeat all the youngsters without running even one step.” With that happy thought, he produced one last silent, satisfied yawn – not the noisy earthquake type, but a gentle good‑night version. The fan spun peacefully, the curtains rested, and even the neighborhood crow finally closed its beak. And somewhere, in a future record book that only grandfathers can see, a new entry appeared: “World Champion Yawner – still active, but currently asleep.”
No comments:
Post a Comment