The Contest, the Comedy, and the Comforting Hug

It’s been three days since the humorous speech contest at club level ended. Like a snail slowly turning out of its shell, I turned myself back to writing again. I like this part about myself—I always return to writing. The gap doesn’t matter.

Coming to the contest: I didn’t make it to the area level (the next level after club). Despite the preparation and the effort I put into crafting and rehearsing a humorous script (and it’s not easy to make people laugh), I couldn’t advance. Since I went to my hometown last month, and marriage and ceremonies in a family are nothing short of a festival, I knew I wouldn’t have the time to think and write then. So I made sure to finish my script a month earlier.

It was, after all, a contest! But the Toastmaster in me automatically tuned my mind not to feel down (though I lost), but instead to extract the lessons. I learned how the winner used his body language and vocal variety so effectively, even though the content itself was simple, just following a storyline. That’s the power of storytelling. In contrast, my speech had too much content and didn’t follow a clear storyline. Still, I tied all the chunks under the theme of ‘Bimlanese’ (that was my title—to mark my own language!).

The good part? My speech did make people laugh. I heard it a few times, especially when I mimicked sneezing and said, “Never mind my sneezing, I’m Covid-proof. Justifying my sneeze—I’m smart enough!” That moment turned my sneeze into Bimlanese!

And then, of course, came the banana comedy…

In my hometown, if you speak too much English, you don’t become “posh.” You become Mr. Peter.

Mr. Peter is the classic name we give to anyone who speaks too much English.

(Please don’t confuse him with Peter Parker from Spider-Man. That Peter swings through buildings. This one? He swings through English words.)

For example—A normal person walks up to a fruit seller and says:

“Can I have a banana, please?”

He gets a banana. Simple.

But if Mr. Peter asks the same thing?

“Excuse me, may I kindly request the procurement of a semi-ripe elongated fruit, preferably yellow in pigmentation?”

The poor fruit seller just blinks at him like—“Sir… are you buying a banana or submitting a PhD thesis?”

Overcomplicating bananas? Yep—that’s definitely Bimlanese.

I was really happy that I ended each chunk by raising both hands, bowing towards the audience, and saying “Bimlanese!” And when the audience finally joined me in doing it, it was a moment to cherish.

The highlight came during the break: a few people pointed at the bananas and said they wanted that “elongated yellow pigmented fruit”! What more could I yearn for as a speaker? (Even now, there’s a smile on my lips.)

That moment reminded me of something else—laughter is therapy. I recalled a line from the Tamil movie Vasool Raja MBBS. For those who know Kamal Haasan, I don’t have to explain. To me, it’s a lifetime stress-buster movie. If it ever had an English version, the apt title would be Dr. Laugh.

But it’s not just a comedy—it also has sentiments and emotions. Especially the scenes of katipudi vaithiyam (hug therapy).

And that’s exactly what I experienced after the contest. When the results were announced (I placed second), I was a little confused as I packed my bag, thinking: Did I not do well enough? Just then, a fellow Toastmaster—she is the past president of our club—came up with a smiling face, gave me a warm, motherly hug, and said, “You did so well!”

In that instant, my heart felt light. It was an immediate lesson: contests are not about competing, but about learning—again and again. Winning doesn’t matter. Learning does.

Now, whenever I remember that hug, I recall the scene from Vasool Raja MBBS where the mother hugs the hero and assures him that everything will be alright… and in my heart, I can almost hear that evergreen background music.