The Race of My Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

five hundred recruits who participated, would be exempted from fatigue duty and would also be given an extra glass of milk every day. This was in January 1953.
    That night, my Punjabi friends and I could talk of nothing else but the forthcoming race. Our other competitors would be the unit’s recruits from all over India and we had all unanimously decided that we could not let the Bengalis, Biharis or Tamilians defeat us—our izzat would be threatened if that happened. I barely slept that night—I was so excited, but at the same time, apprehensive.
    When the day dawned, all of us recruits, wearing our canvas shoes and khaki vests and shorts, reported at the starting line. Filled with a sense of mission, I ran with great gusto and took the lead in the first two or three miles. When I would feel tired I would stop, rest for a while, and start running again when I saw that the other boys were catching up. Luck was on my side that day and I came sixth in the race. At roll call that night, my name was announced before a large gathering of almost three hundred recruits. Friends, and even strangers, wildly applauded and thumped me on my back, screaming, ‘Shahbash!’ I was overwhelmed with joy by the attention I received—this moment was the starting point of my career as an athlete.
    Our instructor was a former runner called Havaldar Gurdev Singh, who had been with the army for about fifteen years. Although his task was to train new recruits, he was a good runner and continued to participate in races. This time he was there to ensure that the ten of us would run six miles each day, after which we would be given that promised glass of milk. For me this was a treat after all those years of deprivation. Gurdev was a taciturn, no-nonsense kind of man, whose tough exterior hid his softer, gentler side. He would run with us during our training period, prodding us with his danda (stick), shouting abuses: ‘ Haramzadon bhaago ! (run, you bastards!),’‘ gadho, hamari company first aani chahiye ! (our regiment must come first, you donkeys!),’ if we did not perform according to his expectations. He would use the same stick to hit the ground in anger or frustration if we were being careless, calling us ‘ dangar di aulad ’. But that was his way of motivating and encouraging us. I strongly believe that he was instrumental in motivating me to strive to become a world-class athlete. Even today when I think of his danda and volley of abuses, I respectfully bow my head in tribute to a great teacher.
    Six weeks later, the Centre held a cross-country race. In this event, Gurdev came first and I second. Suddenly I became the cynosure of all eyes. I was twenty or twenty-one at that time, but looked much younger. A couple of weeks later, I was asked to take part in the Brigade Meet in which all the units stationed in the twin cities of Hyderabad and Secunderabad were participating. I was very surprised when they asked me run in the 400-metre event, mainly because I did not know what 400 metres meant, as I had always run six miles. When I asked Gurdev, he said that I would have to run one round of the track that measured 400 metres.
    Foolishly, I remarked, ‘What, only one chakkar (round)? I can run twenty chakkars!’
    Gurdev patiently explained, ‘No, you will have to put all your stamina and speed in just one round, not twenty.’
    At my first practice run, I took off my canvas shoes and stood there barefoot, in my shorts. Gurdev clapped his hands for me to start—I did, and clocked 63 seconds in my first try. I was eager to run four more rounds. After all, I was used to running six miles every day and considered this quarter mile of little consequence. For days I continued to practise and my time was further reduced to less than a minute.
    On the day of the Meet, I noticed that some young men had the word ‘INDIA’ inscribed on their vests. They were being mobbed by senior officers and their children, and seemed to exude an aura of