The Race of My Life (8 page)

In the bathroom, I looked at my face in the mirror—my eyes were bloodshot and I looked tired. At the same time I was flushed with joy. I smiled at my reflection, wondering how an ordinary person like me could receive such a hero’s welcome. I soaked in the tub for a while and then went to the dining room. When I entered, I saw flashes of recognition on the faces of the other diners and was greeted warmly by everyone. My English was still weak, even after all the lessons I had received, and I found it difficult to respond to their queries.

At the dining table, Mr Kumar told us all about Tokyo and its famous sights, its clubs, nightlife and fast-paced lifestyles. He warned us not to leave the hotel at night, and said that whoever disobeyed this order, would face strict disciplinary action and be sent back home. He added that after the Games, we would be allowed to stay on and then we could do what we liked. His warning was timely, because Japanese society, like Australia’s, was open and sexually progressive. We retired to our rooms early because we had to report for practice at 8 a.m. the next morning.

At 7 a.m. our doorbell rang. When I opened the door I saw a pretty girl, all dressed in white, standing there holding a tea tray in her hands. She bowed and politely wished me ‘Good morning.’ She entered the room, put the tray down and asked me, ‘How much sugar do you take? Would you prefer milk or a slice of lemon?’ When I repeated what she had asked to Parduman, he protested, saying, ‘She has not wished me “good morning”. Tell her to send another girl up to serve me tea.’

The poor girl looked bewildered, so I asked her to sit down and explained. Smilingly, she poured the tea and handed the cups to us. As we chatted, I discovered that she, like many other young girls, came from good families and worked at the hotel to earn money so they could continue their education. They cleaned the rooms, made beds, washed and ironed clothes, as well as did other chores that made a hotel guest’s stay comfortable.

After we drank our tea, we changed into our running kits and left by bus for the stadium that was about three miles away. Teams from all over Asia had collected on the grounds, practising with great enthusiasm—I was electrified by the highly charged atmosphere. When we walked in, all eyes were turned towards us. Cameras clicked as I started to warm-up. Film units took action photographs of me from different angles. We practised for two hours and then returned to the hotel for the press conference.

For about forty-five minutes, the journalists asked me numerous questions: ‘When did you start taking part in races?’ ‘When did you get interested in sports?’ ‘What are your hobbies?’ And so on and so forth. My answers were basic, and I’m sure, not quite what they expected. One of them even invited me for dinner, another for drinks.

It was at our hotel that I first met Abdul Khaliq, a member of the Pakistani team. Baldev Singh introduced us, saying, ‘Meet Abdul Khaliq, the world-renowned sprinter in 100 and 200 metres. And this is Milkha Singh, our racing star. Beware of him, he’s a fiend in 200 metres.’ In annoyance, Khaliq shot back, ‘I have met and run races with many a Tom, Dick and Harry like him. They are no match for me.’ I was completely unprepared for such a spiteful attack, and thought to myself, ‘Why is he being so rude? India may have been partitioned, but we still belong to the same race. Surely, he could not have forgotten our traditional norms of courtesy and tameez?’

In the days before the Games were due to open, the newspapers carried glowing accounts of my achievements and career, accompanied by large photographs on the front page. I was deeply gratified by the publicity I had received and hoped that I would be able to live up to their expectations.

At last the opening day arrived. All the participating nations had gathered at the stadium, waiting for the opening ceremony to begin. When the band started to play, it was a signal for the march past to commence. The Indian contingent, smartly clad in blue blazers, grey trousers, white shirts and blue ties with the Ashok chakra printed on them, were led by a beautiful Japanese girl wearing a blue sari and carrying our national flag. As each team passed in front of the saluting base, they dipped their colours before Emperor Hirohito of Japan, who then declared the Games open. The jubilant spectators cheered, waving multicoloured flags, thousands of balloons were released and fireworks burst to mark the memorable occasion. And then there was a hush as a veteran Japanese athlete, Mikio Oda, ran into the stadium carrying aloft a burning torch—an Olympics tradition that was introduced at the Tokyo Asiad. He encircled the stadium and then placed the torch on a specially made stand in front of the emperor. The torch, a symbol of steadfastness, sportsmanship and good luck, was kept lit throughout the duration of the Games, protected by armed guards. The torchbearer then made a reverse turn and left the stadium, followed by the marching teams.

The 400-metre race was held the next day. Several of my fellow competitors, whose timing was more than mine, came up to me to ask for advice and I was happy to offer them some quick tips. I had practised hard and ran the race in a very relaxed manner. I not only won the race, but also set a new Asian Games record.

My heart was bursting with pride as I stood at the first position on the victory stand. On my right and left were the second and third place winners from Japan and the Philippines respectively. The emperor walked slowly towards the stand, flanked by military guards, and led by three beautiful girls carrying trays in which the gold, silver and bronze medals were ensconced. When the emperor stood in front of me, the loudspeakers announced that Milkha Singh from India had won the 400-metre race, clocking 46.5 seconds, a new record for Asia. The audience erupted with joy, cheering and applauding. I felt my hair stand on end and a shiver of delight ran through me. With a smile, the emperor held out his hand, which I happily shook. I then bent my head and he draped the gold medal around my neck. He followed the same procedure for the other two. When the ceremony was over, we all turned towards the flagpoles to watch the flags of India, Japan and the Philippines go up as the band played the national anthems of the three nations. The entire audience of a hundred thousand people rose as one to honour our flags and anthems. It was the most stirring moment in my life and I was filled with great patriotic fervour just seeing the Tricolour fluttering in the open blue sky. Overcome with emotion, I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking that it was for this flag and for our motherland that thousands of martyrs (shaheeds) and patriots had suffered and sacrificed themselves. Then the realization hit me that this was not only my triumph—my success had brought glory to my country as well.

When I returned to the hotel, I found hundreds of congratulatory messages waiting for me. My victory had affected each member of the Indian contingent and our mood was upbeat that evening. Friends and colleagues would come up to me, pat me on my back, praising me on my performance. The next morning, I was headline news:

MILKHA THRILLS CROWDS

THE REFUGEE WHO ROSE TO STARDOM

MAGNIFICENT EFFORT BY MILKHA: SETS NEW 400-METRE MARK

I was thrilled to see my photographs in the newspapers and to read about my exploits, but only for a short while—I still had another crucial event ahead of me.

The 200-metre race would take place the next day in which I would be competing against the Pakistani champion, Abdul Khaliq. Many thought I could not win, but my spirits were high, buoyed by my victory and the encouragement I had received from my well-wishers. All through the night before the race, I was consumed by an intense desire to defeat Khaliq so that I could be declared Asia’s best athlete. The criterion for winning the title was clear: both Abdul Khaliq and I were at the same position, he had won the 100-metre race and I the 400-metre one, and this event would be the decisive one to prove who was the better athlete.

When we reached the stadium, we both did warm-up exercises in preparation for the race, which was to be held in the afternoon. I was in a fever of anxiety when the call for the race came, a feeling all athletes experience before a major event. The six of us finalists stood at the starting line in our shorts and vests. Khaliq got the outer lane and I the inner one. We wished each other good luck, a mere formality neither of us meant. The gun was fired and the race began. The spectators held their breath, watching, waiting… We both completed the first 100 metres and were running in tandem, our steps parallel. Despite focusing on our running, we were each aware of the other’s progress and were pushing ourselves and our utmost limits. It was fast, it was furious, it was neck-to-neck. Then there was high drama. About three or four yards from the finishing line, I pulled a muscle on my right leg. Then my legs got entangled and I tripped and tumbled over the finishing line. At that very moment, Khaliq breasted the tape too. Fortunately for me, the cameras had photographed every movement at the finishing line from different angles, but we still had to wait half-an-hour for the verdict as the organizers needed time to develop the pictures for adjudicating the photo finish. For thirty minutes, the longest in my life, we did not know who had won. Then came the long-awaited result—I had won! Khaliq was devastated. I, on the other hand, was on top of the world—by winning my second gold medal I was now Asia’s best athlete!

Once again I stood at the first place on the victory stand, with Khaliq on the second and a Japanese athlete at the third place. Professor G.D. Sondhi, a member of the Indian Olympic Committee, placed the gold medal around my neck. I felt like reminding Khaliq about ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’, but that was not my style.

With this victory I had entered the select group of Asia’s top athletes. My fame had spread quickly, with headlines proclaiming:
MILKHA RUNS 200 METRES IN RECORD TIME
. I returned to my room and once again found scores of congratulatory messages, letters and telegrams waiting for me. As I looked at them, I thought about how far I had travelled from my obscure little village in Pakistan, and a sense of loss suddenly came upon me as vivid images from my life flashed through my mind— my father’s and brothers’ deaths, my mother’s anguished cries from inside the burning gurudwara, the horrors of Partition, bloodshed and slaughter, the train to Delhi, despair, suffering, poverty, rejection, struggles, the days of crime on the streets, ten days in jail, a lucky break in the army, life in the barracks, my chance encounter with running, my relentless training schedule, my sacrifices, my goal, lady luck smiling on me, fame and recognition, hero-worship by the loving masses… My dreams had become reality… The rush of emotions overwhelmed me and I put my head down and sobbed like a child. The storms had steeled me, but the glories of the present had rocked me back into dark visions of the past. But then the stream of life moves on.

Parduman Singh, who had won the gold in shot-put and silver in discus, returned to the room in good humour. Listening to him speak and laughing at his jokes was like a tonic and I began to feel more cheerful again. As we talked, the phone kept ringing and there were frequent knocks at the door as my fellow athletes, including some Pakistani athletes from Punjab, came in to congratulate me. This spirit of camaraderie, particularly from the Pakistanis, dispelled some of the rancour of our bloodstained past.

That night, we attended the emperor’s banquet at the Imperial Palace and I was formally introduced to His Highness, who graciously said, through an interpreter, ‘We were pleased to watch your run. If you continue your efforts you will become the world’s number one champion.’ I humbly thanked him for his kind words of encouragement and diffidently replied, saying that my success was due to the love and encouragement extended to me by the people of Japan.

For the closing ceremony on the next day, we assembled once again at the stadium as the Japanese bid us sayonara. Electronic boards displayed messages in both Japanese and English that said: ‘We have done our utmost to make these Games a success. Please forgive us for any inadequacies, and do visit our city and country again.’ Towards the end of the show, the lights dimmed and children in rainbow-coloured clothes holding lit torches performed a wonderful dance. It was a magical conclusion to a memorable event.

Fans were waiting for us at the hotel and the moment we descended from the bus, we were mobbed by scores of eager and well-meaning boys and girls. Some brought us little tokens and gifts while others just wanted autographs. I was touched by their love and affection.

Parduman Singh and I wanted to buy presents for the young girls at the hotel, but they surprised us by giving us dolls and other small objects. We thanked them in Japanese:
‘arigatou gozaimasu’
, we offer our thanks to you. They were delighted. In return we gave them scarves and some brass curios we had brought from India. We had grown very fond of them and when we left, they came to the airport to see us off.

e returned to India via Hong Kong, where we spent four nights. Hong Kong was a vibrant city with a swinging nightlife. However, my vow of self-control remained steadfast and I was not tempted by what I saw.