blood – soaked bandage on my left leg where a meat carving knife viciously wielded by one of the disappointed mothers unerringly found its mark.

I would earnestly advise any young man eager to get ahead in life and make a name for himself not to be roped into judging well babies. It is a mug’s game and fraught with grave and nameless perils. The well babies themselves are cuddly little darlings with the admirable philosophy that it is taking part that counts and not winning. Win or lose, they are game enough to toddle up to the winner, pat him affectionately on the shoulder and say gallantly, “Good show, old top and keep it up. We can’t all win, can we?”

They were all glowering at me, the Hon’ble Judge and I could clearly read their baleful thoughts – ‘Brother, you better award the first prize to MY baby or else …’

It is their mothers that you’ve got to look out for. Lower your guard for a moment and a hefty mother who looks like a freestyle sumo wrestler will instantly knock you out for a full count of 10 without a qualm. To these mothers with the sporting blood in their varicose veins, WINNING IS EVERYTHING and so what if it is only a gift cheque for `11 and a year’s subscription to the Wee Tots Magazine? They are convinced beyond reasoning that their babies are the cuddliest of the lot with the cutest dimple and the daintiest smile and you can disabuse them of their dearly held notion at your own peril.

The well baby show I judged recently got off to a start at 9 in the morning. There were 5 rows of perambulators, basinets and cribs each containing a well baby swathed in its Sunday best. The mothers, aided by a gaggle of nannies as ‘seconds’ stood beside their respective babies and they were impressively armed with parasols and bags containing, maybe, blackjacks and brass knuckledusters and one mother, I swear, was even wielding a lead – weighted stick and they were all glowering at me, the Hon’ble Judge and I could clearly read their baleful thoughts – ‘Brother, you better award the first prize to MY baby or else …’

With the best judicial calm, I peered at the babies in the first row and the memory will haunt me for the rest of my life. Their faces were nothing to write home about and yet their mothers were convinced that they had future Clark Gables and Ava Gardners under their belts. There was this baby in the second row and when he grows up into fine manhood, I would have refused with considerable firmness to escort him down a lonely alley.

The judging was over at last and there was palpable tension and the threat of mindless violence and mayhem hung in the air. The mothers were bracing for pitched, close – quarter combat in case the final verdict went against their wards.

I nervously walked up to the 4th crib from the right in the 2nd row keeping a sharp lookout for a swinging left hook from a mother and reaching for the right hand of the crib’s occupant, I raised it and proclaimed in a terrified squeak “The Winner!” and quickly ducked for cover.