What does it mean to be an Indian woman who is a runner? To earn a living practising an athletic craft, in a country where simply being outdoors, for most women, is a deeply circumscribed activity. One regulated by family, society and the law. For that matter, what does it mean to be a woman who is a runner or a biker or a wrestler or an athlete or a cricketer? Well, sadly, we now know what it means to be a champion woman wrestler.
But, let’s come back to my original question: What does it mean to be an Indian woman who is a runner? The book that I review in this column answers this question. Sohini Chattopadhyay’s book, The Day I Became a Runner not only answers this question, but also does much more. While introducing us to some champion women runners and their life stories, the book also tells you a story about our country. The book, like the runners it profiles, speedily weaves its way through political happenings over the many decades since Independence.
Chattopadhyay is a powerful writer, a deep thinker and has a keen eye for detail. Her book states it is “a women’s history of India through the lens of sport”. In each chapter, the author profiles a runner and, through research and conversations with most of the subjects, tells you of their challenges, their hardships and the many obstacles that were thrown their way; patriarchy, poverty, identity, caste and even testosterone.
The opening chapter is about Chattopadhyay herself who took to running later in life, and her experiences of being the only woman runner in most parks or roads in various cities in India. For any woman who has run on roads in India, or the parks in her cities, her story is a familiar one — of gossipy uncles, walking aunties, many male runners and being the only woman running along. Of trying to run without being noticed.
Mary D’Souza, who participated in the Helsinki Olympic Games as a member of the track team for India, is the first professional runner profiled. She had also represented India as part of its hockey team. At the age of 82, D’Souza received the Dhyan Chand Award in 2013 for a lifetime of achievement in hockey. But in 1952, she was the part of the first set of women who ever represented India at the Olympics. The book then moves onto Kamaljit Sandhu who won a gold medal for the 400m event at the 1970 Asian Games in Bangkok.
Pilavullakandi Thekkeparambil Usha or simply P T Usha follows Sandhu in the book. For anyone who grew up in the 1980s like myself, P T Usha was synonymous with athletic prowess. She was a symbol of possibilities for women and men alike. In 1984, Usha became the first Indian woman and fourth Indian ever to qualify for an Olympic athletics final for an individual event. As we all know, she missed the bronze in the 400m hurdles by one-hundredth of a second. She was an extraordinary athlete, winning four gold medals in the 1986 Seoul Asian Games and five gold medals in the Asian Championships in Jakarta. As Chattopadhyay tells the story of Usha’s life, sporting trials and victories, based on conversations with her, she weaves in contemporary political moments from India.
Santhi Soundarajan — to whom the book is dedicated — follows Usha. She won a silver medal at the Doha Asian Games in 2006 for the 800 metres run. Soundarajan was stripped of the medal for allegedly failing a so-called “sex test” or a test checking a set of biological parameters set out by the World Athletics to define a woman at a given time. At the time, the Indian government, instead of challenging the test and its findings, seemingly gave up on Soundarajan. Pinki Pramanik’s story follows Soundarajan, also one that necessitated a “sex test”, although of the kind used in criminal law.
Times have fortunately changed as the government supported and challenged the findings of the “sex test” when it was conducted on Dutee Chand in 2014. Chand and the government won their case at the Court of Arbitration for Sport in Lausanne, Switzerland. As the author writes, “The landmark verdict underlined that the World Athletics rules for female athletes discriminated against women by setting a threshold for testosterone.” The book notes that quite apart from being a stellar athlete, Chand had also been brave in coming out as queer.
Lalita Babar, who qualified and ran in the finals of the 3,000m steeplechase event at the 2016 Olympics in Rio de Janeiro, has a chapter devoted to her. It was in these Games that Sakshi Malik, the champion wrestler, won a bronze for India in the 58 Kg category. The Sunrise Project, a training programme for long distance running started in 2005, and Ila Mitra, a communist activist, politician, and star track athlete in the 1930s, are written up in the book.
Chattopadhyay’s book is both gripping and tough — gripping, so you don’t want to put it down, and tough, since the lives written up have been hard ones. There is no fairy-tale running story. And the training programme is not what makes these lives harsh. It’s the many obstacles that these women must clear to simply do what they love — to run.
To be a woman runner in India means to be someone who will persevere in the face of tremendous odds. Running is that seemingly effortless, low-cost sport which, in fact, needs the most investment. Running requires safe public spaces, well-established training programmes, and a culture which encourages women to occupy space in our streets and in our parks. Meanwhile, as the year comes to an end, I wish you, dear reader, the season’s greetings and a very happy new year.
The writer is a Senior Advocate at the Supreme Court
