The Race of My Life (14 page)

Nimmi and I met a couple of times thereafter, while we were both practising at the stadium—she volleyball and I running. But there were few outward signs that our relationship was ripening into love. All it amounted to, at that stage, was a strong attraction between two people of the opposite sex. We shared a bond, but for that bond to grow, we needed time, which was not possible, mainly because my calendar was packed with events that made it impossible for me to stay in any one place for a length of time. After a few days I had to hurriedly leave Patiala and had no time to inform Nimmi of my departure. I must sadly admit that my travels and the numerous events that I was competing in soon obliterated all thoughts of Nimmi.

It was during this period of my life that I, too, had begun to experience the adulation and admiration that popular film stars and other celebrities face. My career and fame were on the rise, and I remember all the lovely ladies I had encountered when I participated in running events across Europe, Asia, and even India, who cheered loudly and clustered around me, asking for autographs or just gazing at me with adoring eyes. I still remember Betty, Australia’s sprint queen whom I met at the Melbourne Olympics in 1956. She had never seen a sardar before and was mesmerized by my turban. I taught her how to tie it and even presented her with one of mine. To be honest, I could have succumbed to temptation, but then I would always recall my vow of abstinence, well aware of the deleterious effect sex would have on my mind and body. Sex can play havoc with the self-imposed discipline and practice routine that is so essential for an athlete’s growth and development.

Although my sister, Isher, was very keen to arrange a marriage for me, I was really not interested at that stage, simply because I could never find a girl who could measure up to my all-absorbing devotion to sports, or for whose love I could sacrifice my métier, my chosen goal.

When I returned from the Tokyo Asian Games in 1958, the principal of the College of Physical Education in Patiala invited me to give his students a lecture on the Asian Games. I had little experience of public speaking, but agreed even though I thought it incongruous that a young man like myself should be addressing an audience who were almost the same age.

When I took my place at the podium, I began by thanking the principal for the honour he had extended to me by inviting me to address his students. I then narrated some of the highlights of the races I had participated in. Girls were seated in the front row of the auditorium while boys filled the benches behind them. It was here that I saw Nirmal, or Nimmi as she was affectionately called, again. She was talking animatedly to her friends, and I presumed somehow that I was the subject of her witty comments. After my lecture, several girls and boys came up to me for autographs or to be photographed with me, but Nimmi remained aloof. Perhaps she was too shy, or too proud to join the crowd. I saw her staring at me but lacked the courage to single her out for a chat so that we could renew our acquaintance.

There had been an innocence in my experience with the fairer sex so far, but I soon realized how convoluted the mating game could be. It was at an exhibition on Mathura Road in Delhi when I first set eyes on one of the most striking young ladies I had ever seen. As a joke, a friend said, ‘Milkha, do you think you could attract this girl?’ We joked about it and left if there. As it transpired, she and her mother came to watch me run at the All-India Athletic Meet at the National Stadium the next day. When I won the race, she came up to congratulate me and generously invited my friends and me for dinner at her house. That evening my friends teased me mercilessly, saying, ‘Beware, the loveliest rose has thorns that can scratch you.’

The next day we went to her palatial house for dinner and met her parents, who welcomed me warmly like a son, indicating that they had no objection to their daughter’s friendship with me. They were an affluent business family and they shrewdly felt that having a famous sportsman as a son-in-law would be good publicity for their company. As our interactions increased, I began to feel very uneasy and stifled by the way her parents took command of my life and how they tried to control my every move, to the extent that whenever I returned from an overseas trip, their car would be waiting for me at Palam airport and they would whisk me off to their house. They even tried to interfere with my future, and dismissed my dreams and aspirations; instead they wanted me to focus on how my image could enhance their business.

She entered my life when I was young and impressionable, and it was clear to me, right from the start, that we could never have forged a deeper relationship. She was very beautiful and we were close friends, but I had no desire to give into her family’s demands and dikats.

Gradually, I began to distance myself from the family, but they were extremely influential and threatened that if I did not marry their daughter, they would destroy my career, or even get me murdered. Their threats and warnings, however, did not frighten me. By now I had moved to Chandigarh and hoped that the matter would be forgotten.

There were times when I would miss having a soulmate in my life, but I did not want to lose focus in my quest to become the best athlete in the world.

round the same time, in 1960, I unexpectedly met Nimmi again. At that time, she was working as the DPE (deputy physical education) instructor at Delhi’s Lady Irwin College. One day, while I was practising at the stadium, I was invited to attend a volleyball match, and when I entered the enclosure, there was an announcement saying: ‘It is a matter of great pride for us that Milkha Singh, the Flying Sikh, has graced this competition with his presence.’ All eyes turned towards me, and deeply embarrassed, I quietly took my seat. Soon after the match was over, a young lady came up to me, folded her hands and greeted me with ‘Sat Sri Akal’. I looked up and recognized Nimmi immediately. But what a transformation! Nimmi as a student displayed all the mannerisms of a frivolous adolescent and was always demurely dressed in a salwar–kameez and dupatta with her long hair tied in two plaits. Today, wearing a sari and her hair knotted in a bun, she had the poise and confidence of a professional young lady. I couldn’t reconcile the two disparate images.

After the competition, she came up to me and insisted that I accompany her for tea in her hostel, which was fairly close to the stadium. While we talked, my old feelings for her returned, much stronger now than ever before. How could I have forgotten such a beautiful and empathetic young woman? She reproached me, saying, ‘ You are like a carefree bird moving from tree to tree, while I am like that melancholic tree, upon which you alighted for a brief moment and then flew off. Have you ever once thought of this miserable tree who finds herself alone and abandoned?’

After a few minutes of silence, I said, ‘I have no reply to your question, Nimmi.’

But from that day onwards, our relationship changed and we began to meet more often. This was also the period when my professional life had entered a new chapter. I had resigned from the army and was now based in Chandigarh, a city that had been constructed as recently as the 1950s. It was a sprawling, sparsely populated place and I felt unsettled and lonely without my friends and colleagues. And though I missed them, I missed Nimmi even more, and every weekend would drive to Delhi to spend time with her.

One evening, I picked Nimmi up from her hostel and took her for a drive in my Fiat down Mathura Road. We were so engrossed in our conversation that we hadn’t realized that the car had hit the pavement and ploughed through a group of labourers, injuring one of the women. The crowd that had collected shouted at me and smashed the car’s window frames in rage. I tried to placate them, but their mood was too ugly and I was surrounded by the angry mob. Nimmi was watching the proceedings with growing anxiety, fearful that because of the accident our clandestine meetings would be publicized and that her family and the college authorities would come to hear of them. Some of the onlookers recognized me and appeared sympathetic, and in desperation, I appealed to them to take Nimmi back to her college. She didn’t want to leave me, but I insisted. I then turned my attention towards the injured woman, put her gently into the car and took her to the nearest hospital. I paid for the woman’s fractured leg to be X-rayed and for the subsequent treatment and also gave her husband one month’s salary ex gratia. I felt this was the least I could have done.

We continued to meet in Delhi while Nimmi was still at Lady Irwin College, but she soon took up a position as assistant director at the Sports Department, Punjab, where I was deputy director. This gave us a chance to meet more often, both in the office during our lunch and tea breaks and in the evenings when we would take long walks along the lake. However, unlike a bustling metropolis like Delhi, Chandigarh was a small town and our regular meetings did not go unnoticed. People began to talk and word of our relationship soon reached the ears of our all-powerful chief minister, which displeased him greatly. There was another added complication that made Kairon Sahib even angrier. The affluent Delhi family had heard about my courtship of Nimmi, and wrote furious letters to Kairon Sahib, denouncing me for my callous treatment of their daughter. Goaded by the onslaught of their letters, the chief minister called for me and demanded to know what was going on.

I then narrated the truth about what took place in Delhi, explaining that there was nothing untoward in my friendship with the girl; we would meet for the occasional cup of coffee, or just for a chat. That was all, and if he and her family didn’t believe me they could check with the girl.

He then shot back, ‘Your intimacy with Nirmal has become a public scandal. This is very bad.’

I humbly said to him, ‘Sir, if you are displeased with me I will resign and leave Chandigarh. But first, I request you to give me a fair and patient hearing.’ I then proceeded to tell him that I loved Nimmi and wanted to marry her.

He listened sympathetically, and said, ‘If you want to marry Nirmal, go ahead at once. Otherwise stop meeting her.’

I was overjoyed that the chief minister had believed me and that he had given his consent to our marriage. But what I didn’t expect, and what I should have, was how difficult it was to break the social conventions of those days. In the 1960s, inter-caste marriages were frowned upon, and my family vehemently declared that under no circumstances would they agree to their brother marrying a Hindu.

By now the news of our relationship had reached Nimmi’s parents, and they were furious. Her father, Choudhury Mehar Chand Saini, was an influential man and staunch Arya Samaji, and he was convinced that if his daughter married a Sikh his reputation and izzat would be at stake. Besides, they had been trying to fix a match for her with an eligible engineer who had just returned from Canada. They demanded that Nimmi return home to Pathankot immediately and attempted to brainwash her to accept the proposal.

When Nimmi returned to Chandigarh, she was deeply distressed and wept in my arms. Would family pressure force us to part? Was this the end of our romantic dreams? Despite her sorrow, Nimmi found the courage to confront her mother with an ultimatum—either to allow her to marry Milkha Singh or she would remain a spinster all her life. But her threats made no difference to their opposition.

Finally, Kairon Sahib decided to step in and break the impasse. He spoke to Nimmi’s father, whom he knew very well, at great length, convincing him to agree to the match. He explained that both Nimmi and I were determined to marry each other, and if her family continued to object, then what would prevent her from eloping and having a court marriage? We both were of age, so didn’t really need parental consent. ‘Wouldn’t such a step,’ he asked, ‘be equally harmful to your reputation? Wouldn’t it be easier to just say “yes”?’

And so, with the chief minister’s intervention, all the hurdles were crossed, and preparations for our wedding began.